Children of Time, Ep 9: Fractures
by Wholmes Productions
Summary: Wyndham's Theater, 1988. Taking Holmes and Watson to see themselves on stage – yeah, that'll go down well! And with an old enemy of the Doctor's lurking in the wings, Beth's innocent hero worship has both hilarious and disastrous consequences...
1. The Second Act

**==Chapter One==**

**The Second Act**

"_Take care! I don't care. Don't you worry about me! I am as happy now as I have ever been, and that is saying a great deal. But the time has come. I am being swept off my feet at last."__  
_

_Vwoorp-vwoooooorp!_

Beth Lestrade jumped to her feet from where she'd been reading _Lord of the Rings_ out on the porch. She knew that sound! She hadn't heard it in two years, but she couldn't possibly forget it when it had been haunting her dreams ever since!

"Beth, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she told her little sister and tore into the house and up the stairs. She'd had a duffel bag packed and all but ready for over a year now—the Doctor had said he'd come back when she was older, but he'd never actually said _when_. She stuffed her book and a few other odds and ends into the bag, then slung it over her shoulder and ran back down, grabbing a coat out of the closet before she ran out the back door, somehow avoiding her siblings and her mother. Thank goodness. With any luck, they'd never even know that she had been gone at all.

The noise of the TARDIS had faded away, but she knew which direction it had come from and ran towards it through the woods surrounding her home. After a minute, she came out into a clearing to find the TARDIS sitting there, looking quite serene in the late afternoon light of an August sun.

The door opened, and a familiar figure stepped out, grinning briefly before the look faded to confusion. "Excuse me? Could you tell me where to find Beth Lestrade? She looks a bit like you, but she's a little girl…"

Beth glared daggers at him, then set her things down and ran forward, flinging her arms around him. "Doctor!"

He hugged her back, laughing and lifting her up off the ground. "Look at you! Oh, it's so good to see you again!"

* * *

Contrary to what the Doctor might think, Holmes truly wasn't adverse to seeing Miss Lestrade again - although he did feel rather hesitant at adding yet another female to the group. He soon cheered up, however, at the thought that having a second female for company might help to distract Sally from constantly making eyes at Watson. It certainly couldn't make matters any worse...

He could hear Beth's voice as he approached the door, shrill with excitement, and the Doctor laughing. Holmes wondered briefly how many months they'd been away from her perspective, he should have asked the Doctor for the date... Exiting the TARDIS, he halted abruptly, staring in surprise. The tall, slim brunette that stood before him was a far cry from the tearstained fifteen-year-old to whom he had said _'au revoir_' when they were last here...

The Doctor pulled back a little and grinned over his shoulder at Holmes. "Will you look at her? She's a lady now!"

Beth laughed self-consciously. "I wouldn't go _that_ far." She let go of the Doctor and gave Holmes a shy smile. "Hi."

Feeling strangely uncomfortable all of a sudden, Holmes nodded, more stiffly than he'd intended. "Hello, Beth." Why couldn't he think of anything else to say? He couldn't even decide what else to do - a handshake seemed a little _too_ formal, and as for the hug he'd given her last time... well, that might be appropriate for either Doctor, but something in Holmes recoiled at the idea of doing so now.

Thankfully, Beth didn't seem at all inclined to hug him, either, chewing at her lip, looking more self-conscious than ever. Just as the moment started becoming unbearably awkward, Holmes was relieved to hear Watson's voice coming from the control room: "Doctor, Holmes, are you out here?"

His voice grew louder as he approached the open door, stepping outside with Sally. "You might have warned us we'd be landing, we would have..." Then his eyes widened as he saw and recognised the new arrival, beaming in delight. "Beth!"

Beth smiled back widely. "Dr. Watson!" She came forward and hugged him without hesitation. "It's so good to see you again!"

Watson returned the hug warmly. "It's wonderful to see you, my dear!" He pulled back to look at her again. "And look how you've grown –" He grinned in disbelief; "good heavens, you're taller than I am!"

Beth blushed again and laughed. "It's a family thing, yeah." She let him go and turned to Sally, smile faltering a little. "Hi. I'm Beth. Ah, Beth Lestrade."

Holmes was gratified to see that Sally held out her hand at once. "Sally Sparrow. It's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you." The two girls shook hands, then Beth looked questioningly over her shoulder at the Doctor.

"Sally just started traveling with us," the Doctor explained, "and I realised—we needed another girl on board. Balance things out."

Beth gave a mock pout. "So I'm the balance. Very nice." She broke out into a grin and shook her head. "I'm just..." She exhaled slowly. "So... I can come along?"

The Doctor smiled solemnly, nodding at the TARDIS. "It would be my honour."

Beth hesitated a moment, then picked up her bag and walked slowly inside, with the Doctor following. Behind them, Sally turned to Watson, eyes widening. "Wait, _Lestrade_…?!" Well, it had taken the woman long enough to make the connection…

Watson nodded, grinning. "Direct descendant of our own Inspector Lestrade… and one of my former students – remember I told you I was a high school teacher for a while?"

"Oh my god…"

Holmes arched an admonishing eyebrow as he passed them on his way back inside. "_We_, my dear fellow, it wasn't just you." He found himself smiling faintly, recalling that he had also found Beth a pleasure to teach, before everything went to hell...

"Remind me to tell you about that another time," Watson said to Sally apologetically, the pair following after Holmes.

Beth turned to Holmes as he entered, blue eyes as wide as they'd been on her first trip. "How do you even _live_ in a place like this?"

Holmes gave her a reassuring smile. "A willing suspension of disbelief." Then again, she might not know that particular quote from Coleridge.

She tilted her head curiously, then gave him a rueful smile, shaking her head as she looked around her again. "To say the least…"

Watson nodded at the bag on her shoulder. "If you'd like to settle in, Beth, the TARDIS will have a room ready for you."

Beth nodded, looking decidedly dazed. "Kay… um…" She grimaced slightly, turning to the Doctor. "Where would that even be?"

The Doctor shrugged."There's an entire row of bedrooms now. Holmes can show you!"

Beth looked somewhat tentatively at Holmes, who sighed internally – why him? – but gestured politely at the bag. "If you'll allow me?"

Eyes wide, she allowed him to take it. "…thanks..."

He nodded evenly, leading the way out of the control room and down the passage. As they walked, he wracked his brain for a harmless conversation topic. "You, er, seem to have been keeping well since we last saw you."

She gave another nervous laugh. "Well, I'm only seventeen. I was half expecting the Doctor to find me somewhere in college."

"Perhaps he did not wish to disrupt your studies." He hesitated, curious as to what had happened after they'd left, but not quite sure how to phrase the question.

"Mm." A few moments later, she murmured, "I missed the three of you. I think a lot of kids did."

He nodded again, apologetically. "It is a pity we could not remain longer. I hope your assisting us did not lead you into any trouble with the authorities."

"Not really. This group showed up just as I got back into town and they were asking people in the school for info, so…" She shrugged. "UNIT. Have you heard of them?"

"Indeed – the Doctor has worked with them on numerous occasions, mostly in the 1970s." And the Time Lord had regretfully informed Holmes while they were trapped in the Sixties that contacting UNIT for assistance before they'd even encountered his third self would be disastrous.

Beth nodded. "They weren't surprised when I told them about the Doctor."

They reached the passage with the row of bedrooms, which now had a second new door. Holmes stopped in front of it. "This must be your room."

Beth laughed in disbelief. "Wow…" She opened the door and stood staring at the luxurious apartment in front of her, which seemed to be a mixture of Victorian and late 21st century, complete with a four poster bed.

Holmes coughed lightly to break her reverie, and handed over the bag – a gentleman never entered a lady's bedchamber without invitation. "Please, make yourself comfortable. If there is anything you wish for, you need only ask, and the TARDIS will provide it."

"I think… I could very quickly get spoiled..." she said slowly.

He gave her another reassuring smile - he suspected he'd be doing a lot more of that in the near future. "Simply treat her with respect, and all will be well." Not that he was terribly concerned, the girl's manners were quite impeccable – from her own time's standards, of course.

She smiled gratefully in return. "Thanks."

He nodded politely, turning to leave.

"Sherlock?"

Holmes froze in his tracks, entirely taken aback. He turned back again, looking at her a touch uncertainly, but doing his best to appear unruffled – after all, she was hardly the first of their party to use his given name.

Beth smiled at him tentatively. "It's really great to see you again."

He cleared his throat self-consciously, although by no means displeased. "Er, thank you, Beth..." Wishing he didn't feel so dreadfully awkward, he managed to respond, if a little stiffly: "It is pleasant to see you again, also. Welcome aboard."

Her smile widened, and she stepped into her room, allowing him to make a thankful escape.

* * *

The Doctor was grinning at her from behind the central column. "So! All of Time and Space, and you have had two years to decide what you want to see! So how 'bout it?"

Beth grinned back, scarcely daring to believe that this was all finally happening. "Wyndham's Theatre, October 1988." One of the regrets of any dedicated fan of Granada's Sherlock Holmes series was being born too late to go see the great Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke perform their most beloved roles on stage in _The Secret of Sherlock Holmes_. Only audio recordings existed of the play—no videotapes had ever been uncovered.

Well, Beth was determined to go see that play, maybe even get a chance to meet Jeremy backstage afterwards.

The Doctor chuckled. "All of Time and Space, and you want to go see a play?"

"Doctor, who was it again who suggested Shakespeare?" said Watson, smiling broadly.

"You went to see _Shakespeare?_" said Sally, eyes wide. "I'm jealous!"

"So am I!" Beth chimed, grinning widely.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "All roight! Wyndham's Theatre it is." He moved to start the TARDIS up, but Beth ran forward.

"Wait!"

The Time Lord paused expectantly.

"There's just one thing I'd like to do first."

* * *

The Doctor's long fingers were tight and warm around her ankle, anchoring her. She had played in zero-G gyms before, but that was nothing compared to the sensation of floating suit-less in space. She felt weightless and naked and chilled, even though she was fully clothed.

The TARDIS possessed a bubble of artificial atmosphere—that was why she still breathed, unfrozen. The Doctor stood in the doorway, holding on to her ankle to keep her from simply floating outside of the bubble into the deadly vacuum of space just a few inches from her face.

It was so quiet, so vast. They were near enough one star that it seemed to be the size of the Moon from Earth. That star was blue-white—her heart ached at the majesty of it. Every which way she turned, there were _stars_. Space wasn't empty—it was _alive_. It was alive with myriads upon myriads of points of light, dancing their great dance through the heavens.

When the hand on her ankle began to pull her back in, she realized that she had been holding her breath and that she was crying. Her stomach churned at the reappearance of gravity, and she nearly threw up on the Doctor's converses. She managed to hold it in, though, blinking back tears and whispering, "Thank you."

He simply smiled peacefully in return and leaned on the doorpost, folding his arms and turning his gaze heavenward. "Though my soul may set in darkness," he breathed, "it will rise in perfect light; I have—"

"—loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night," she finished softly. His warm, dark eyes returned to her, and she held that gaze: thousand-year-old Time Lord and human child, but they shared a moment of perfect understanding.

* * *

Deciding that, since their group had gotten so large, camouflage was becoming more of an important issue, Watson and Holmes both took the time to change into more appropriate attire, returning from the wardrobe room in suits from the late Eighties.

Sally sighed as the party left the TARDIS. "Will you look at these three? They're in suits -"

Beth shook her head in mock regret. "And I left my suit in my other duffle, yep."

"Well, if you ladies would prefer to go back and change...?" Watson smiled. "The TARDIS wardrobe is sure to have something suitable." He supposed he could have found more casual clothing, but this was only his second official date with Sally and he had felt the need to make an effort. Sally, of course, was elegant in whatever she wore - still, he would love to find out how she looked in an evening gown...

The girls glanced at each other, then shook their heads.

"I think we're good," Beth said. "Thanks, though."

Sally nodded. "I don't think it's actually all that formal..."

Watson offered Sally his arm and glanced pointedly at Holmes, who responded with a Look of his own as he offered his arm to Beth. All right, perhaps he shouldn't have simply assumed that Holmes would neglect the common courtesies, but with the way his friend had been acting lately... "And which play are we about to see, my dear -" he asked Beth, "or is that meant to be a surprise?"

Beth suddenly seemed to shrink in on herself slightly. "Well... it might be a play about this detective and doctor I know of..."

Watson and Holmes both stopped dead, staring at Beth, momentarily speechless.

She grimaced. "…hi."

"I think it sounds like fun!" Sally piped up. "Who're the actors?"

Beth gave her a grateful look. "Ah, Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke."

Sally's eyes went wide. "You're joking. No, I actually watched the show when I was a kid—it was brilliant. _They_ were brilliant."

Watson nodded thoughtfully. To be honest, he'd been more surprised than shocked by the revelation. His trawls through the internet had brought him into contact with one or two Holmes movie titles, although he'd avoided reading any of the plot summaries. "Well... as long as they're decent actors, I suppose I've no objection. Holmes?"

Holmes hesitated for a long moment, then sighed in resignation. "Oh, very well, then." This trip was Beth's choice, after all, he probably didn't want to seem a wet blanket.

"They're _amazing_ actors," Beth grinned. "Jeremy Brett actually looks a _lot_ like you, Sherlock, just... older by now."

Holmes was looking thoughtful. "Brett... That name _is_ familiar, actually. Didn't he play the role of d'Artagnan in _The Three Musketeers_?"

Beth's eyes widened. "Yeah, he did. How do you know that?"

"I worked briefly at a sports center in '69 as a fencing instructor. One of my regulars was a fan of the series – understandable, given all the swordplay."

Beth giggled. "I hear the series was corny—never had the chance to watch it myself."

Sally looked over her shoulder at the Doctor, who was walking behind the four of them. "Doctor... you haven't been saying much."

The Time Lord was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Oh, I'm just enjoying watching you people—you're all so adorable." He laughed as Beth looked back over her shoulder and stuck her tongue out at him.

Watson sighed, exchanging a pained glance with Holmes. The Doctor's fanboying could be difficult to live with at times, his colleague hoped he'd keep it to a minimum during the performance.

* * *

There was just one thing that Beth had not been thinking about. She hadn't _forgotten_ it—she just hadn't factored it into this trip that actually included the subjects of the play. A rather nasty little plot-twist at the end, the titular secret and one of the crazier things Sherlockians liked to come up with… In the play, Sherlock Holmes _was_ Professor Moriarty, much in Jekyll and Hyde fashion.

Both Sherlock and Dr. Watson had gone white at the revelation, and then Sherlock stood and stalked out of the theatre as quickly as he could, looking absolutely thunderous, eyes blazing.

Beth hurried out after him, cursing herself inwardly the whole time. How _could_ she?! "Sherlock, wait, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't—"

He rounded on her, and she flinched a full step back. "Didn't _what?!_ Think? Apply the least granule of common sense? No, clearly not!"

"No, I didn't, and I'm sorry!" Her vision started to blur. Zed. "I've always wanted to see this play, and I didn't think of how it would affect you and Dr. Watson, and _I'm sorry!_"

Discomfort began to seep through the anger in his features, probably because of her zedding tears. Why did she have to lose it now? "Now, really, Beth..." he said, "there's no need for that…" He took a handkerchief from his pocket and awkwardly held it out to her. "Do compose yourself, there's a good girl."

She shook her head mutely, not accepting the handkerchief, feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself. She'd acted thoughtlessly—treated her own heroes thoughtlessly—and now she'd made a complete idiot of herself. Brushing the tears out of her eyes, she took a shuddering breath and murmured, "It's special, actually _watching_ Jeremy and Edward like this. But I didn't think. I'm sorry." She turned back towards the theatre.

"Why?"

She stopped and turned back to him, echoing his confused frown. "For being inconsiderate?"

He shook his head. "No... I mean: why here, why now? I read the programme—Brett and Hardwicke have been playing Watson and I on television for the last four years. What was so special about this play?" His eyes narrowed, and she found it very difficult to hold his gaze. "Beth, did you know how the second act would go? What my 'secret' was meant to be?"

She shrunk back further, hanging her head and nodding wordlessly.

He sighed deeply. "I don't understand you, Beth. You're a Lestrade, for heaven's sake—and yet you were perfectly happy to sit there and applaud what you knew to be a pack of damned lies, regardless of who was telling it!"

Her head snapped back up. "It's _completely_ because of who's telling it! Jeremy was _the_ best, bar none, and he would have gone and done all sixty stories if he could have!"

Sherlock tilted his head, frowning. "Why didn't he?"

Her chest suddenly hurt. "Because he'll be dead in seven years. He's not healthy right now… and it only gets worse."

He exhaled heavily, still looking confused. "And yet you could have chosen to see him perform at an earlier date, could you not? I am sure the Doctor would gladly have found a way for you to be on set at the Granada Studios."

She wished now she'd thought of that—why hadn't she? "Honestly never entered my mind. The play is a big deal—it's the only one he ever did as you. It's the play that all the fans wish they could have seen."

He nodded grudgingly. "He's certainly a talented actor, I'll grant him that. I suppose the question uppermost in my mind is: the man made it his business to portray me as accurately as possible, given what he had to work with... so why would he ever agree to playing _this_ role?"

She shrugged. "It's still kind of connected to Granada—one of the screenwriters wrote the play. From the interviews I've seen, he had fun being on the stage again and doing a two-man performance with his best friend…" She shrugged again. "I don't know. Why don't you ask him?"

His eyes widened with what looked like uncertainty. That was an emotion she'd never thought to see from him.

"I did want to go backstage after the show was over," she said hopefully.

He sighed and smiled faintly. "And I suppose I do owe you for causing you to leave before the end..."

She blushed. "I wouldn't exactly say that…" More like, she owed _him_…

He shrugged. "Well, in any case… if you would care to have me accompany you…"

She nodded shyly.

He offered her his arm. "Then shall we adjourn to the stage door ahead of the stampede?"

She took his arm slowly. "That would be nice, yeah." Softly, she added, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he said dryly, eyes twinkling. "No, I mean that, I should prefer to let this memory fade swiftly."

She sighed, supposing she deserved that.

* * *

**A/N from Sky:** Well, _wow_. So Beth is finally back, yay—but inadvertently _adding_ to the tension in Team TARDIS, oops. Poor kid—my first choice would be _The Secret of Sherlock Holmes_, too! But it definitely wasn't the smartest choice with the real-life counterparts around...

Still, I'm delighted that she's back, and excited for the rest of the episode! This is the first time that we have _completed_ an episode before posting it, and that alone is exciting!

**A/N from Ria:** And this episode is _entirely_ new, not based off any of Martha's adventures! Since we now had _two_ double episodes shortened to singles in our series, we wanted to make sure we kept a full first season. The plot was actually inspired by one of Sky's earlier Jeremy Brett fics... shh, spoilers!

Like 'Stolen', the main cast is obviously a lot bigger for this one, so it was a real challenge keeping the scene perspectives evenly distributed without detracting from the story. In fact, a couple of the scenes in later chapters had to be written from _multiple_ viewpoints - but we've done our best to keep the narrative from getting confusing!

Stay tuned, and please review!


	2. A Case of Identity

**==Chapter Two==**

**A Case of Identity**

"_We all have too many wheels, screws and valves to judge each other on first impressions or one or two pointers. I don't understand you, you don't understand me and we don't understand ourselves."_  
― Anton Chekhov, Ivanov

Watson was supremely thankful when the final curtain rang down at last. Still feeling rather shaken, he rose from his seat with the rest of the audience as the lights came back up, scanning the auditorium for his friends.

Sally laid a restraining hand on his arm. "John? Please sit down."

He shook his head, frowning. "I should find Holmes, make sure he's all right." Why hadn't he followed after him in the first place, what must his friend have thought?

Her eyes were full of concern. "That's what Beth did, and I think you should sit down."

The Doctor stood up as well. "_I'll _go look for them, all right?" When Sally nodded gratefully, he headed off, threading his long, thin frame through the crowd with ease.

Watson sank back down into his seat, passing a weary hand over his eyes. "I'm all right, my dear, I just... need a moment to clear my head."

Sally smiled at him sympathetically. "I'm sure." She took his free hand in hers, pressing it to her cheek. "That was… intense."

He stroked her cheek lightly with his thumb, smiling ruefully. "Something of an understatement..." He hoped his expression didn't convey just how deeply the play had disturbed him. Holmes and Moriarty one and the same person - what damned fool had come up with such an appalling notion? And as for the end of the first act...

"I didn't know," she assured him softly. "And I'm sure Beth didn't mean for either of you to be upset."

He shook his head, responding hastily, "No, of course not. Poor girl, she looked quite as stricken as Holmes!" Could Beth have known...? No, that was absurd, she would never do something so thoughtless!

"Mm." Sally rubbed his hand soothingly. "Do you want to talk about it, at all?"

He gave her a grateful smile, sighing - this did seem a good moment, most of the audience in their section had already packed up and moved off. "Well, I _am_ a writer, I could see where the plot was going for the first act, at least. I just... didn't plan on 'suspending my disbelief' for the waterfall scene so thoroughly." After Niagara, he'd thought he would be better prepared...

She winced and squeezed his hand. "And the part when you... when Edward Hardwicke shouted to Jeremy Brett was hard."

He shivered, squeezing back, voice becoming a whisper. "For a moment... I was back there again..."

She leaned over and wrapped her arms around him, rubbing his back. "At Reichenbach?"

He nodded, returning her embrace tightly, his eyes growing hot as the awful memory replayed itself yet again. "Standing on that cursed path... shouting Holmes's name until I was hoarse..." He choked back the sob that threatened to rise. "And never knowing that he was watching me the whole time, so near..." Her arms tightened around him further, and he suddenly found himself able to confess something he never had before. "Truth be told, love... it was Mary who saved my life that day, not Holmes..."

He felt her shiver, whispering, "Oh, John..."

"Without the thought of her waiting for me to come home... I have no doubt I would never have left Switzerland..." He was deeply thankful now that he had never told Mary so; it might have gratified her at the time, but would only have served to hurt her more once she realised she couldn't stay with him...

Sally looked up into his face, and he was greatly dismayed to see that she was crying silently. She tried to speak but couldn't, instead lifting trembling hands and running them through his hair.

He framed her face in his hands, his own eyes full of tears. "Oh, Sally, I am sorry! You don't deserve this - the last thing I wanted was to make you feel like you were having to compete with her memory..."

Sally gave a slight, helpless laugh. "John, it's not that..." She kept stroking his hair soothingly as she continued, "It's seeing you like this... and knowing, more or less, how you felt..."

His eyes widened, feeling like a complete bounder for not realising earlier. "Kathy?"

She nodded. "It was hard. And then one future was taken from me..." Her voice was a whisper: "And then I lost you..."

He caressed her cheek, finishing remorsefully, "And you were left behind in the middle of those Angels." He could easily imagine how terrifying that must have been for her.

She shuddered. "Yeah..." She pressed his hand to her cheek. "I thought about you all the time..."

He smiled at her tenderly. "Your letter gave me hope that you might still be waiting."

"I would have waited forever," she whispered.

"As would I," he murmured earnestly, "although I am very thankful we didn't have to."

"Me, too." She gave him a shaky smile as she wiped her eyes, then leaned up and kissed him.

One very good thing about the future, Watson thought dreamily as he kissed her back, was that such gestures of affection in a public place were no longer considered scandalous. He would have been quite happy to continue on like this a good while longer... but then their moment was rudely cut short by the Doctor's voice: "I found Holmes and Beth, they're back... Ooo, sorry."

Watson sighed, although he couldn't help smiling. "Brilliant timing as always, Doctor."

"Oi! No gratitude… Holmes and Beth are backstage with the actors —wanna join 'em?"

Watson's eyebrows shot upwards, turning to look at the Doctor. "Wait, Holmes and Brett in the same room?" This he had to see...

* * *

Happily for Holmes and Beth, the stage door was unlocked, which opened onto a short passage with another door at the far end, labelled 'Green Room'.

"The actors' common room," Holmes nodded, moving towards it. The sounds of violin music and thunderous applause came faintly to their ears. "We shouldn't have long to wait, either, from the sound of things."

The noise grew louder as they entered the room, which held an eclectic mix of battered but comfortable lounge furniture. Two of the many doors were ajar, revealing dressing rooms, upon which were posted temporary signs: 'Brett' and 'Hardwicke'.

Beth started bouncing on her heels. "Oh my gosh, I can't believe..."

Just then, two sets of footsteps approached, and in walked the actors themselves. Hardwicke raised his eyebrows and smiled. "A young lady – definitely here for you, Jeremy. "

Brett snorted good-humouredly, but made no comment.

Beth smiled at the pair shyly. "Hello, Mr. Hardwicke, Mr. Brett."

Hardwicke smiled back genially, tipping his hat to her. "Hello, miss."

He strolled off to his dressing room as Brett tossed his own hat aside and strode forward to shake hands, all charm and smiles. "Good evening, Miss…"

Beth's eyes shone with delight. "Beth. Wonderful to meet you, sir."

Brett grinned. "Please, Beth, just call me Jeremy." He then turned to greet Holmes, eyebrows twitching as he took in a general appearance not dissimilar to his own.

Holmes was already making an effort not to bristle at the actor's effusive manner. Reminding himself that he was here on Beth's behalf, and if he offended her idol she would probably never forgive him, he shook hands, smiling politely. "Congratulations, Mr. Brett – a most moving performance."

Jeremy raised an eyebrow slightly – perhaps realising that the compliment hadn't been entirely sincere – but smiled back anyhow, saying, "Thank you. I have a lot of fun with Ted - he's sort of my own Watson in real life."

"You two are absolutely fantastic." Holmes wondered sourly just how many saccharine adjectives Beth could cram into the next few minutes.

Jeremy's smile turned bashful. "Oh, you're sweet." He gestured at his room."Would you like to come in? There are some things you might like."

Beth grinned. "Love to."

The dressing room put Holmes in mind of a Sidney Paget illustration on steroids. It was full of extra props and items of Victorian clothing – including, to the detective's great disgust, a grey tweed deerstalker. Why could no one from the future seem to comprehend that such attire was purely country wear, nobody would ever wear one in town!

He was gratified to see that Beth had largely ignored all of the bric-a-brac, heading straight for the dressing table, the mirror of which was covered with photographs. "Oh gosh, Colin Jeavons! He is just _the _best Lestrade."

'Le-_strayed_'? Mildly surprised to hear her mispronouncing her own family name, Holmes came forward as well, more curious than he was willing to admit.

Brett laughed, grabbing some clothes and disappearing behind a dressing screen. "He's great. Fun to work with."

"My word, an Inspector with a sense of humour," Holmes murmured, coming up behind Beth to study the picture. The actor certainly matched Watson's _description_ of Lestrade, dark hair and sharp features… then the detective's gaze was arrested by the next photo along… "Good heavens…" For a moment, he could have sworn it was his own Watson smiling out at him from beside Jeremy!

Beth quickly leaned up and whispered, "Edward Hardwicke replaced David Burke in the role."

He gave her a nod of thanks, and continued to scan the collection, his attention caught next by a photo of Jeremy surrounded by a group of young, raggedly clothed boys – the Irregulars, obviously, that picture must be from filming _The Sign of the Four_. The oldest of the group even looked a little like Wiggins… now, why on earth was Beth smiling at him like that?

Jeremy emerged from behind the screen, much more informally attired in a sweater and slacks. "Everybody loves the photos," he grinned.

"They're lovely," Beth agreed, then laughed in delight when Brett came over and plopped the deerstalker onto her head.

Holmes smiled in reluctant amusement, resisting the urge to roll his eyes – she looked even more ridiculous in it than he ever had.

She narrowed her eyes at him, raising her brows in warning, then took the play programme from her pocket and turned to Jeremy. "Ah, would you mind…?"

"Not at all." Jeremy took it from her and signed it, handing it back with a smile. "There you go. So then, big Holmesian?"

Beth grinned. "Where I come from, it's 'Sherlockian'."

Jeremy laughed. "How terribly undignified." A revolted Holmes could not have agreed more...

"No, yeah, huge fan," she giggled. "Spent more money on it already than is probably healthy."

Jeremy laughed again. "Bravo. Then you'll be happy to hear that we're doing another series next year."

Beth's eyes were wide in apparent surprise and delight - of course, she already knew that. "Really? That's fantastic! Gosh, I can't wait!"

Holmes suddenly noticed an odd gleam in Jeremy's eye, the actor's smile becoming as forced as Beth's now was, and realised the danger. If the detective had been here alone, he might just have been tempted to let the actor prove himself by deducing his identity... but of course he couldn't allow that to happen with Beth. He took her elbow, squeezing it gently in warning. "Well, it has been an honour to meet you, Mr. Brett, you and your colleague – but we really ought to be going."

Beth gave him a curious look, but thankfully didn't object. She smiled apologetically at Jeremy and opened her mouth to say goodbye... but just then the other three walked in, the Doctor leading the way.

* * *

Sally had to admit—she was rather excited herself to actually meet Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke. They'd been part of her childhood, after all. Maybe something good could be salvaged from this night.

She and the Doctors passed through the actors' lounge into Jeremy's dressing room, and the Time Lord's eyes lit up when he saw the actor. "Oh, _molto bene_! Brilliant performance, Mr. Brett."

The man smiled good-naturedly, broadly, probably looking almost exactly as Sherlock Holmes would if the Great Detective would lighten up just a little. "Thank you, ah…"

"Oh, I'm the Doctor, and this is, ah, John Walker and Sally Sparrow."

John was smiling, no doubt at seeing Jeremy and Sherlock close together—the resemblance was uncanny. Out of sight of the actor now, Beth smacked her forehead with her palm, sighing. Sally realised, then, what she should have already thought of, and only just managed to smile genuinely at Jeremy and give a little wave. "Hi."

Jeremy stared at John, then glanced at Sherlock, then back at John, his bewilderment evident. Of course: not only was Sherlock almost a dead-ringer for Jeremy about twenty years younger, but John also looked incredibly like Jeremy's _first_ Watson, David Burke.

"Perfect timing, Doctor," Beth muttered.

John moved forward to shake Jeremy's hand, still smiling. "It's great to meet you, sir."

Jeremy seemed rather dazed as he shook hands, then shook himself and frowned, turning to Sherlock. "Who are you?" he murmured.

Sherlock sighed deeply, turned, and took a photo from the photo-littered mirror, handing it to John. John stared at it and breathed, "Good God…" David Burke in Granada's 221B sitting room.

Sherlock leaned back against the dressing table and gave Jeremy the Eyebrow. "You know my methods, Mr. Brett—" he inclined his head invitingly—"apply them."

Jeremy paled but frowned severely. "That's not funny."

"It's not meant to be, Jeremy," Beth said softly. "It's really them, honest."

He turned to her, frown turning incredulous, and took a steadying breath. "I think you should all leave," he said evenly. "Right now."

The Doctor stepped forward. "Mr. Brett…"

"No!" Jeremy closed his eyes and took another calming breath. "I'm sorry. Please go."

Edward Hardwicke appeared in the doorway in normal clothes and sans a toupee which Sally had never realised he wore for his role.

"He's right, Holmes," John said regretfully. "We shouldn't have come."

Edward looked at Jeremy in concern. "What's going on in here? Jeremy, are you all right?"

"I'm fine. They were just leaving, that's all."

Beth looked stricken again, poor kid. So much for a trip she'd always wanted to make… The Doctor started shepherding everyone out the door. Edward nodded and stepped back to let them all out. John handed the photo back to Jeremy, smiled apologetically, and turned to leave.

That must have been Edward's first good look at Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. His jaw dropped as he stared. "Good God!"

Beth groaned softly, took the deerstalker cap off, and set it aside as she walked out, hanging her head like a shamed puppy. Sally gave Jeremy an apologetic glance and went after Beth, gripping her shoulder comfortingly.

Edward stepped out of Jeremy's room himself, closed the door after him, and gave them all a long, considering look, nodding thoughtfully. "All right…" He looked at his own dressing room, then seemed to make his mind up about something and gestured invitingly at the lounge furniture. "Please, sit down."

The Doctor sat first, Sally sat with John on the couch, Sherlock leaned against the wall, and Beth settled on the coffee table, folding her long legs beneath her.

"We really didn't mean to cause any trouble, sir," said the Doctor.

Edward seated himself in a brocade armchair and arched an eyebrow. "And yet poor Jeremy looks like he's seen a ghost, and your friend there resembles David Burke closely enough to be his younger brother—not to mention that the David double just called _him_ 'Holmes'. So…" He leaned back and waved a hand. "...regale me."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "Wayeeellll... I suppose you _could_ say that... we're time-travellers?"

Beth moaned and hid her face in her hands.

"For heaven's sake, Doctor," Sherlock drawled sarcastically, "either say it with conviction, or don't bother!"

The Doctor ran a hand through his hair, looking like he was getting frustrated now. "Fine! I'm a time-travelling alien, _that's_ Sherlock Holmes, _that's_ Dr. Watson, Sally was born a couple of years ago, and Beth won't be born for another ninety years." He'd been nodding to each of his Companions in turn, then turned back to Sherlock and said, just as sarcastically, "Did I miss anything?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, and he tilted his head. "No," he said serenely, "I rather think that covers it…"

Edward's eyes were wide, although it looked more like wonder than anything else. John caught his eye, and the two shared a grin. Sally shook her head—_men_. On the other hand, Beth, cheeks flaming, looked like she was trying to will the floor to swallow her up.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Well, I think Edward here takes the award for handling that explanation the best out of all you lot."

Edward inclined his head modestly and sat forward again. "So," he mused, "all of Time to choose from…"

"And Space," the Doctor put in helpfully.

Edward blinked. "...and Space, all right—" he looked at all of them curiously—"and you chose to come here?"

Beth finally lifted her head, looking miserable. "That was my choice—the Doctor let me pick, and I've always wanted to see this play." She propped her chin in her hands, still looking quite pitiful.

Edward smiled warmly, looking for all the world like a man who could win a Grandfather-of-the-Year award. "Well, Beth, Jeremy and I will consider that an immense compliment. Thank you."

* * *

The dressing room door opened again and Jeremy reappeared. He ran a hand through his hair, which was now mostly free of pomade, and said to Holmes softly, "Once you've eliminated the impossible, hm?"

Holmes shrugged, not quite ready to call a truce - although he knew that he also would have considered something like this impossible before meeting the Doctor.

Jeremy then turned to Beth. "Ted's right. Thank you."

Beth's eyes were full of remorse. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Jeremy gave her a slight, rueful smile. "I know you didn't, darling." He heaved a sigh and threw out his hands. "All right, all of you—there's a good little pub not too far from here and, if you don't mind, I am definitely in need of a drink. Anyone coming?"

The Doctor looked up. "Sure. Love a good pub."

Sally shrugged. "I'll go with you."

"I'm in." Watson rose and offered a hand to Sally, glancing questioningly at Holmes.

Holmes nodded, if somewhat resignedly. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do – and given the events of their evening so far, the thought of a stiff brandy was looking more and more appealing.

Beth, on the other hand, was looking decidedly unenthusiastic. "Drinks. Woo-hoo."

Jeremy raised an eyebrow at her. "You're not eighteen?"

She raised both of hers right back at him. "No, but I'm flattered. I won't be eighteen for a few more months."

Jeremy gave a sympathetic laugh. "Well, we'll see what we can do. Come on." And to Holmes's acute displeasure, the actor actually slung an arm around Beth's shoulders as she got up from the table.

The detective gritted his teeth - he would have thought that the girl had more sense than to encourage such deplorable familiarities from a near-perfect stranger, no matter how well she might _believe_ she knew them! There was nothing he could do about it, however, and there was certainly no shortage of chaperones for the moment. He tensed as a nasty thought struck him, and shot the Doctor a warning glare: _Don't you __**dare**__ give Beth the psychic paper for ID..._

* * *

**A/N from Ria:** Now, this was something new for me: writing two people who... well, I suppose you can call them historical figures now, but who were also both alive in _my_ lifetime (and most of the readers!), which means that writing them becomes a much more daunting task. Getting Edward Hardwicke's voice right was a real challenge - he's so quiet compared to Jeremy in their interviews!

**A/N from Sky:** I've actually written Jeremy and Edward before as interacting with Holmes and Watson (see the community "Granada" on my own FFN profile for those stories and others that I inspired—it was a thing for a little while!). It's always been fun, but this time was especially challenging. We both read the wonderful but rather heartbreaking _Bending the Willow_ by David Stuart Davies, and that definitely helped.

Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke were two sweet and wonderful gentlemen, and we really hope we did them justice!

Please review!


	3. In Vino Veritas

**==Chapter Three==**

**In Vino Veritas**

"_Quickly, bring me a beaker of wine, so that I may wet my mind and say something clever."_  
― Aristophanes, The Knights

At the Garrick Arms, Beth was slowly eating a slice of cheesecake. The Doctor sat with her and worked at his own slice, ordered on a whim when he saw Beth's. Dr. Watson and Sally had found their own table, and Sherlock and the actors were at the bar. Jeremy had been nothing but sweet on the way there, and Beth felt dangerously close to being infatuated again with her old celebrity crush. She hoped fervently that nothing more would go wrong and they could end the night on a respectable note, at least, if not a happy one.

Edward caught the bartender's eye. "Glass of stout, please, Jack. The drinks are on me, Mr. Holmes. What's your poison?"

Holmes nodded his thanks, looking with interest at the vast array of bottles behind the bar. "Napoleon brandy, if you have it." His usual drink of choice was red wine, but this was a special occasion, after all.

Jeremy glanced gratefully at Edward. "I'll have the same." Badly needing a smoke by this point, he fished a cigarette pack and his lighter out of his jacket, clamping a cigarette between his teeth. Then, recalling how avid a smoker Holmes was, he held the pack out to the detective. "Cigarette?"

Holmes hesitated, tempted. It had been a long time, neither he or Watson had smoked at all since they left Baker Street. Even if the TARDIS hadn't disapproved, the only times he smoked at home was when he needed to think while on a case, or when boredom tempted him to reach for the needle. The first time boredom truly became an issue on their travels, however, was when they were trapped in '69; but the Doctor had flatly refused to let him have any tobacco, 'on principle', he'd claimed – as if the detective had needed telling not to go near any of the other drugs available!

He might as well have one now, though, if he was going to be getting a lungful from someone else's, anyway...

Teenager and Time Lord watched, the Doctor disapproving, Beth sad. Beth knew that Sherlock couldn't have smoked while he was a teacher in her own time because it was illegal in her state and the three men were there for weeks at least. And... watching Sherlock Holmes and Jeremy Brett both take drags from their cigarettes... knowing how the smoking was aiding Jeremy's illness...

She pushed away her plate, feeling sick in a way that had nothing to do with secondhand smoke.

Watson looked up from the glass of Scotch he was nursing, and frowned, sighing; Holmes had been doing _so_ well up till now... The doctor had personally vowed never to smoke again after learning from his medbay studies exactly what it could do to the body. Those gruesome images of human organs affected by a lifetime of tobacco had made him, an ex-military doctor, almost lose his breakfast.

To Edward, the sight of Holmes and Jeremy smoking was nothing unusual; he'd had to learn to smoke himself for the part of Watson, although he did wish Jeremy wouldn't use _his _role as an excuse to smoke like a chimney. Deciding not to spoil the moment with nagging, he excused himself and headed over to where Beth and the Doctor were sitting. "May I?"

The Doctor hummed around a bite of cheesecake and nodded, smiling.

Beth pulled her attention away from the lookalikes at the bar to focus on an actor maybe even she didn't always appreciate enough. "You really were wonderful up there," she said softly; "on the stage, I mean."

Edward sat down opposite the pair and took a long pull at his beer, wiping the froth from his moustache. "Well, at least two thirds of the credit has to go my co-star –" He grinned, the exhilaration of tonight's performance still fresh. "Jeremy's just amazing to work with."

Beth couldn't help grinning back. "Oh, I'm sure. But I also get the sense that he feels the same way about working with you." If gushing over Edward in just about every interview ever post-1985 was any indication...

"We have had a lot of fun together." Edward smiled softly as he recalled some of those moments. "It's been an incredible experience, right from the start – thanks to Jeremy, one of the most rewarding roles I've ever played." His friend had been so warm and welcoming since their first day together at the studio, never once making him feel like a usurper for taking David's place. His gaze drifted over to Watson, looking at the doctor in something close to awe. "And now I get to actually _meet_ the man himself..." He sighed, shaking his head ruefully; "and I haven't got the slightest idea what to say to him!"

The Time Lord grinned. "Aw, you can talk to Watson—he doesn't bite! Well, unless you're one of the bad guys, in which case he _does_ bite..."

Beth rolled her eyes—the Doctor was even more impossible than John Smith had been, and that was saying something! "You two would get along," she assured Edward. "I always got this feeling that you were actually a lot like him. And, hey, you've done Shakespeare before, right?" She shrugged. "I'm sure he'd _love_ to hear about it. He's a huge Shakespeare fan." She still wished that she could have gotten a full year with John Watson as her English teacher, because he had been fantastic.

The Doctor's grin widened. "So much so that he got to _meet_ Shakespeare."

Edward's eyes bulged. "Seriously?! Oh, my Lord," he breathed in reverent envy, "what wouldn't I give...?" He glanced back over at Watson and Sally, who seemed totally oblivious to their surroundings at the moment. The actor was relieved to know that those later stories were apparently spot on: if the way those two looked at each other was any indication, there would be another wedding very soon. "I don't know, do you think I should? I'd hate to disturb them." There were a great many questions he would love to ask his role model, but he could well imagine Watson would have had to fend off pestering fans far too often already.

The Doctor and Beth looked over at the couple, then back at each other, and the Time Lord could tell that the teenager was thinking the same thing. "Nah," he said casually. "Good for them to be reminded they're not the only two humans on the planet." He winked and stood. "C'mon."

* * *

Freshly ensconced in a booth with Holmes, Jeremy raised his glass in salute to the detective, then took a sip. He had to admit, he was a bit embarrassed that the real deal had seen a very, well, non-canonical play. How bloody awkward.

Holmes echoed the salute, keeping his brandy glass slightly aloft, gazing contemplatively into the liquid's amber depths, with more than a touch of frustration - now that he was actually in a position to ask about the play, he couldn't quite think how to do so. For a man who rarely found it difficult to make inquiries, however awkward, it seemed to be happening an awful lot lately...

Jeremy decided he might as well bite the bullet. "Must've been bloody awful, watching that play," he said quietly. "Sorry about that."

Holmes's fingers tightened on the stem of his snifter. Raising the glass hastily, he tossed back half his brandy in one swallow, shuddering as the liquor seared its way down his throat. "Well, perhaps..." he rasped, then cleared his throat and tried again. "Perhaps you'd care to explain about that?"

Jeremy winced and took a long sip from his own glass. "...well, the play was written by one of our show's primary screenwriters—it's sort of a package deal. Heaven knows that Ted and I aren't the only Holmes and Watson acting pair, but we're the only currently popular one... And it's lovely to be back on stage—I didn't realise just how much I'd missed it before. Ted and I have fun, and... it's a job." He shrugged slightly. "I'm sorry, I really don't have any sort of deep explanation: it's a job, pure and simple."

Holmes nodded, managing to plaster on an understanding smile, but making no effort to keep the note of condescension out of his voice: "Of course." So much for the man's 'dedication to the canon', for what little _that_ was worth.

Jeremy bristled in spite of himself. He thought he'd braced himself for Holmes's prickliness, but he supposed he hadn't done. "Not everyone has the luxury of being able to turn down work, you know." _Keep it calm, keep it calm, don't let the damaged penguin rile you…_

Holmes gulped down the other half of his drink, then reached for the bottle again. "Well, perhaps I'm not the one you need to explain that to," he muttered. It wouldn't hurt certain people to realise that acting wasn't truly any more exalted or glamorous a career choice than detective work...

Jeremy frowned, irritated and confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Holmes didn't deign to elaborate, pouring himself a second, larger brandy. "Care for another?"

Oh, heck. Jeremy raised an eyebrow in a flawless imitation of the detective. "Certainly." He knocked back the rest of his brandy, coughing only a little, and refilled his glass. This was going to be a long night.

Holmes's lips twitched, nodding at the raised eyebrow."Impressive."

"Thanks," Jeremy said sourly. He exhaled forcefully and took another drink. If he could have just stood and walked away without it being rude, he would have. He was tired of this already.

Holmes knocked back most of his second glass and shook his head, speaking more deliberately as he forced his thoughts into line, which were starting to become a trifle disordered. "No, no, I mean it, your performance tonight... extraordinary. Considering what you've had to work with, it really was a most remarkable caricature." Watson had unfortunately gotten rather carried away when it came to describing the fictional Holmes's body language, especially on their first meeting. All that feverish energy and flourishing gestures - ha! Anyone with sense could hardly be blamed for thinking they were reading about a lunatic!

Not deigning to answer that, Jeremy gritted his teeth and knocked back the rest of his glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Beth watching them. Turning a bit towards her, he saw genuine concern in her expression and felt a flash of anger at the Great Detective for her own sake as much as his. Unlike Sherlock Confirmed Bachelor Holmes, Jeremy wasn't blind—he could tell when a girl was infatuated, and poor Beth obviously had it bad for Holmes.

And she deserved so much better.

Jeremy went in for another round, needing it badly. When he got back to the hotel tonight, he was going to need a long smoke before he could get to sleep.

"Oh, an' it's 'Le-straaahd', by the way." It was a good thing the Inspector would never know how his name was being mangled in the future, he would've had a _lot_ to say about that.

Jeremy counted to ten—or tried to, anyway. "Tell my producers, then," he retorted, voice slurring a little. He felt warm and relaxed, and if it weren't for the damaged penguin, he'd be feeling quite pleasant right about now.

Holmes drained his glass and set it down again, rather more forcefully than he'd intended. "Be glad to –" he said thickly, nodding his head up and down several times for added emphasis;"you lot need some... someone who knows what they're talking about."

Jeremy was about to retort when he heard the forceful scraping of a chair across the floor—Beth standing from her nearby table. Blue eyes blazing, she walked away, no doubt unable to listen to any more of her hero's nonsense.

Holmes's glass had stubbornly refused to refill on its own, forcing him to pour himself his next drink - and now the confounded thing was having trouble staying still...

Jeremy groaned, making to stand and go after the poor kid. "Wait, Beth..."

Frowning in mixed annoyance and concentration, Holmes managed to reach out and place a restraining hand on Jeremy's arm. "Now, now, don't... don't walk away like that, s'not polite. Trying to talk t'you..." Now, if he could just remember _what_ they'd been talking about... something about the Inspector...?

Jeremy frowned back. "No... you're not. You're... drunk." And now _he_ was, too—lovely. "Jus' stop..."

Well, really! Holmes gave his dop... doppel... lookalike what he hoped was a haughty stare. "'m _not_ drunk... how dare you sug-suggest such a thing, sir?" He drew himself more or less upright, then with a concerted effort, enunciated clearly, "I am only _half_-rats." And then lost all semblance of dignity at the ridiculous turn of phrase, giggling silently. Ah, the hell with it... He sagged back down into his seat, recapturing his escaped glass yet again, and found it mysteriously empty.

"D'you... know what?" Jeremy said, exasperated. So much for "the Great Detective"—the man was nothing more than an overgrown child. "I don't... do you... justice... Even m'stage... character... was saner..."

Holmes's eyes narrowed, blearily trying to focus on the insolent upstart in front of him. Leaning forward with a lurch and wagging an unsteady finger in Jeremy's face, he said sternly, "Now, now, you, you... take tha' back, all righ'?"

Jeremy shoved the finger aside, a bit more roughly than he'd meant to—too drunk to be steady, too sober to not be disgusted with Holmes's behaviour. "P'raps when... you start b'having... like a human being."

The detective's eyes gleamed dangerously, the still-smouldering resentment starting to cut through the amber haze in his brain. He brought his finger back and poked Jeremy in the chest. "Well, whaddabout you, hm? Poor girl's barely outta high school -" A second, harder jab; "you sh'd be ashamed o' y'self..." If there was one thing he _really_ couldn't stand, it was a libertine.

Jeremy snorted incredulously—definitely, completely oblivious, this one. There _was_ such a thing as being appreciative and trying to give a fan a good time. "You're one t'talk!" He grabbed Holmes's hand and forcefully pushed it away. "_I _w'z bein' _nice_, whish'z more'n I can say for _you_."

Holmes's already rising temper flared instantly, pushing back clumsily with both hands. "Ge' off me!" So help him, if this oaf laid just one more finger on him...

Jeremy forced back a groan as the room suddenly swam around him. He clutched the table, managing to regain his sense of balance, and glared at Holmes. The "best and wisest man"? Jeremy was seriously starting to question Watson's judgement. "You're pathe'ic." He managed to get off his seat, wobbling a bit.

"_I'm_ p'thetic?" Holmes sneered viciously, delighted at the chance to finally tell this buffoon what he'd thought since before the curtain even opened. "_You_ spen' four years tryin' t' _be_ me!"

Jeremy had to leave, now, before he did something stupid. He was trembling and not from drink. "Obv'sly, a waste'f time." He turned and walked unsteadily towards the door.

The detective snorted in agreement, slumping back in his seat again as he watched Jeremy retreat, his whole body suddenly feeling strangely heavy. "Brill'ant, Holmes..." he muttered, not quite certain whether he was addressing the actor or himself. What did it matter, anyway... it looked as if that bottle wasn't _quite_ empty yet...

* * *

Edward watched anxiously as Watson hurried forward and snatched the bottle out of Holmes's shaky grasp, noting in alarm just how little was left. "Holmes, how much did you drink?!"

Holmes gave him a dreary, one-shouldered shrug. "S'it matter?"

The doctor's face was grim. "Oh, you'll think so tomorrow when the hangover hits - but did Jeremy have as much as you?"

"S'pose..."

Edward groaned. "Oh no..." More than one glass of anything was usually bad news for his friend, and the idiot had barely eaten since breakfast, now he came to think of it. "Doctor, Jeremy'll be three sheets to the wind, and he's wandering the streets!" If only he and Watson had been paying more attention...

"And where's Beth?" Sally demanded, who had just returned from the restroom, unluckily missing most of the confrontation, including her friend's exit.

The Doctor turned to the couple."You two stay here with Holmes, Edward and I will find them."

Edward followed the Doctor outside, hoping fervently that Jeremy hadn't been in a fit state to get very far - but no such luck, there wasn't a sign of him or Beth anywhere.

"Oh no..." The Doctor ran a hand through his hair, biting his lip in thought. "Edward, is there any chance that Jeremy would head back to the theater?"

Edward nodded, already setting off in that direction. "That would be my first guess - let's hope Beth is with him!"

* * *

Beth's heart was breaking, watching Jeremy stagger and sway down the sidewalk. This was all her fault… well, _mostly_ her fault. She'd never felt _angry_ towards Sherlock before, but she was very angry now. "Jeremy, wait!"

He didn't pause in his drunken stride.

She ran forward. "Please stop! You're not all right!"

A nondescript white van pulled up alongside, disgorging three figures in black jumpsuits and ski masks. Beth gasped. Jeremy slurred, "What the he…"

One of the masked figures drew a pistol and aimed at Beth as she opened her mouth. She closed it helplessly, glaring murder, knowing a kidnapping when she saw one.

Another of the figures grabbed Jeremy by the arms, holding him still; he didn't really have the strength to resist them anyway, though he tried. The third sprayed him in the face with a small canister, and he slumped unconscious.

"No, please!" Beth cried.

The two figures hauled the limp actor into the van, and the first backed up after them, keeping his gun trained on Beth until he jumped in after them. The door slammed shut, and the van sped away, windows tinted, license plates covered.

Nevertheless, Beth pulled out her phone, ran after them just long enough to snap pictures of the van, turned, and ran back to the pub, quickly finding the Doctor and Edward. "Doctor, Jeremy's been kidnapped!"

"What?!" The Doctor frowned incredulously.

Edward paled, eyes widening. "Oh, God…"

She held up her phone. "This is the van."

Edward's face lightened a little, eyes gleaming with curiosity and… approval? "Good girl!" Then he frowned at her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Beth, are _you_ all right?"

She swallowed back sudden tears and focused on breathing for a moment. "I'm fine."

The Doctor nodded. "All right. Let's get back to the TARDIS and work from there. Edward, if you're coming, I give you fair warning: she's bigger on the inside."

Edward's eyes were quite round now as he gave the Doctor an are-you-crazy look. "What makes you think I'd miss _this_?!"

* * *

When the trio reached the spot where the Doctor had parked the TARDIS, however, they found a nasty surprise awaiting them. The police box was nowhere to be seen.

Beth gasped. "Doctor, what happened?"

The Time Lord frowned in disbelief. "I don't know—who steals a police box?!" He ran forward and pulled out the tool she'd seen in his memories—she wasn't sure what it was, exactly, or what it was called. But it looked as though he was scanning the area with it.

Edward blinked. "Ah, this is probably a stupid question…"

"It's not actually a police box," Beth told him; "it's just disguised as one."

"Right, that makes perfect sense…"

"Not picking up any unusual signatures," the Doctor announced, "so whatever it is, it's not alien tech."

"Good to know."

The Time Lord's frown deepened. "Maybe not so good." He flipped his tool and turned to them. "All right, come on, back to the pub. We're reconvening."

* * *

Watson and Sally looked up expectantly as the trio came back, both relieved to see Beth, but sobering again at the lack of Jeremy and the serious faces of the others.

"What's happened?" Watson asked.

"Jeremy was kidnapped," Beth answered, sounding very subdued. "Whoever did it knew what they were doing, too - blank white van, black suits and ski masks."

The Doctor nodded, his expression putting Watson strongly in mind of their adventure on the roof of the Empire State Express... "And I think it's safe to say that the same people took the TARDIS, as well."

"Oh, terrific!" Sally exclaimed, as Watson swore. "Doctor, you're starting to develop a track record."

Edward sat down heavily, looking extremely anxious. "But why on earth would they want Jeremy? Who _are_ these people?"

Holmes gave a loud snort. "Basil Rathbone fans?" He started giggling again, although there was an unpleasant glitter in his eyes.

Edward's face swiftly became as red as the detective's, opening his mouth to respond... then closed it again abruptly and relaxed his clenched fists.

Arguing with a drunk certainly wouldn't help matters, but Watson still had to admire the man's restraint. He closed his eyes for a moment as a nasty suspicion started to take hold. "Actually... that idea probably isn't too far off base... After all, Jeremy and Holmes do look awfully alike... and he was with an actual Companion at the time..." And they were even wearing clothes from the same decade.

"And the TARDIS is gone." The Doctor's face was grim, eyes gleaming with carefully-controlled fury. "Between the two... I think Torchwood is rearing their ugly head again."

Beth frowned. "What's Torchwood?"

"An organization that doesn't exist, and whose mission is to secure the safety and the power of the British Empire," the Doctor explained, suddenly looking sheepish. "They're rather... anti-alien."

"Let me guess," Sally sighed; "they're anti-_you_, specifically."

"Oi! Without me, Queen Victoria would have ended up a werewolf. Now, how's that for gratitude?"

Watson gave the staring Edward his best 'don't ask' look. "And that's not all, I'm afraid," he said gravely. "Holmes... tell them what you told us." This latest news had all but driven the earlier revelation out of his head, but in the light of Jeremy's abduction it now seemed much more significant.

He wasn't surprised, though, when Holmes stopped giggling at once and clamped his mouth shut, staring sullenly down at the table; no doubt he hadn't even meant to let it slip out in the first place.

Beth ventured closer, saying softly, "Sherlock, come on, please."

Holmes gave her a sulky glare, laden with resentment. "Wha's it matter anyway, s'not like we need 'im back."

The Doctor opened his mouth at that, but Beth got there first, eyes flashing with anger. "That does it—I don't care _how_ drunk you are, you better zedding listen, mister. There's a man out there that was kidnapped because he _looks like you_, and the only reason he was out there to be kidnapped in the first place was because he couldn't stand being around _you_ anymore!"

Watson had expected at least some show of defiance from Holmes at Beth's outburst, but surprisingly, the detective seemed to shrink in on himself during the tirade, eyes sliding away from hers. "S'not my fault a bunch o' goons coul'n' tell us apart..." was all he could manage in response.

To Watson's dismay, Beth drooped as Holmes spoke, all the fire suddenly seeming to go out of her. "No," she said quietly. "No, actually, it's mine." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "And when you're ready to stop acting like a total zedhead, it would be really nice to have a smart, responsible detective back."

The detective's response was strangely bitter: "Well, looks like 'm y'r only option now, dunnit?"

Without another word, Beth turned and walked away, her distress clear in her face.

The Doctor watched her go, frowning deeply. "All right, you lot," he said quietly, "clear off and go with her, okay?"

Watson nodded - he strongly suspected he wouldn't want to be around for this conversation, anyhow. Escorting Sally and Edward towards the exit, he glanced back at Holmes, and was appalled to find himself regarding the flushed, sulking man-child slumped in the booth with more revulsion than he'd ever felt before; although he was somewhat relieved to find that bewilderment remained at the head of the queue. Nevertheless, Watson hoped the Doctor would be able to find out what had set Holmes off, because right now, he simply didn't trust himself to stay calm for long enough.

* * *

Once the others had left, the Doctor turned back to Holmes, sighing wearily, just as upset by all this as everyone else. "Are you really going to make me dunk you in the Thames? Several times over? Because I will if I have to."

Holmes snorted. "Bet it's a damn sigh' cleaner than las' time!" He sighed explosively. "Brett's quittin'—ain' gonna play me no more…" He gave a sudden, lopsided manic grin. "Bes' news 've heard all day!" He pointed an unsteady finger at the Doctor. "He said I was mad—" he frowned incredulously—"c'n you b'lieve that?! Can' _think_ wha' Beth sees in that guy, he's insuff…" His brow wrinkled. "...suffer… he's a jerk."

The Doctor watched him in increasing anger. Of all the idiotic things to do, Holmes had just _had_ to get himself drunk—and apparently was a complete idiot when he was. So much for genius…

Once the detective had finished, the Time Lord rose swiftly, eyes blazing, and grabbed Holmes's collar, pulling him up, too. "That does it." He made for the door, taking Holmes by surprise and nearly making him trip. The Doctor got a better grip on him and helped him out the door and along the sidewalk. "Do you know what? I can completely understand how _anybody_ would call you mad with the way you've been acting lately. As for Jeremy himself, he'd better not quit because we need a good, memorable, fictional version of you between Basil Rathbone and Benedict Cumberbatch. Not to mention that when _somebody_ was trying to start a fight, _he_ was the one that ended up walking away rather than sticking around to continue to trade blows. Oh yeah, and I can totally get what Beth sees in him—what I _don't_ get right now is what she sees in _you_."

* * *

Watson saw the pair leave—and, more importantly, saw the Oncoming Storm in the Doctor's face. "Oh, bloody hell…" He turned to Sally. "Stay with the others." Then he took off after his friends, as quickly as his bad leg would allow. "Doctor!"

"What is going on?" Beth said, feeling incredibly tired.

"Oh, I wish I knew," Sally murmured. What had they gotten themselves into?

* * *

The Doctor heard Watson call his name and stopped short, turning. "What?!"

Watson raised an eyebrow. "I could ask you the same thing."

"What does it look like?!" the Doctor cried, exasperated.

"Like you're about to do something stupid. Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't we be trying to keep a low profile here?"

"But…" The Doctor looked at Holmes, then at Watson, and sighed deeply, suddenly feeling bone-tired. He'd just gone without his girl for a long time, and he wasn't enjoying another separation, especially at the hands of _Torchwood_.

Watson smiled grimly. "Oh, don't get me wrong—if we had the TARDIS swimming pool handy, I'd pull up a chair with popcorn. But the last thing any of us needs right now is to get arrested for assault or disturbing the peace."

Holmes looked stricken. "Wa'son…"

The human doctor's eyes blazed. "Shut up, Holmes! No matter what that poor girl thinks, this _is_ your fault! Jeremy would never have been in danger if you hadn't been trying to drink him under the table—" his tone turned disgusted—"God only knows what you thought you were proving!" He calmed slightly, voice turning deadly serious. "And trust me, just as soon as you've dried out, you're going to do _everything_ you can to help us rescue him."

"An' why's that?" Holmes asked, sulky.

"Because... if we don't get Jeremy back in the next twenty-four hours—alive and _unharmed_—" Watson's grin was sudden and wicked—"guess who'll be going out on that stage tomorrow night in his place?"

Holmes's eyes widened, face paling. "Doctor," he said faintly, pleadingly, "get me sober…" His eyes fluttered shut, and he slumped unconscious.

The Doctor gathered him up into his arms. "Well, that takes care of one problem." He looked back up at Watson. "We need somewhere to stay for the night, though."

Watson shrugged wearily. "Maybe Edward can put us up?"

The Doctor frowned. "Does he have a house here in town? I thought he didn't."

Watson sighed. "The theater, then?" He smiled ruefully. "I honestly don't fancy trying the homeless shelter again, not with the two girls."

The Doctor shook his head. "No, of course not." He sighed—the next twenty-four hours were not going to be fun at all. "All right, then, let's see."

* * *

**A/N from Sky:** Oh, gosh. Poor Jeremy! Poor Beth, too—as Martha pointed out in "The Shakespeare Code," you should never meet your heroes. Yup, things are painful again, and they're not likely to get better in the near future...

**A/N from Ria:** Hmm, looks like a certain detective can't hold his liquor as well as he thought... Although this chapter was a difficult one to write, a drunk Holmes turned out to be a lot more fun to roleplay than I was expecting. Maybe it's because I knew, like everyone else here, what's going to happen next, and let's face it, our boy's way overdue for some proper comeuppance!


	4. Headaches

**==Chapter Four==**

**Headaches**

_Tell me, Atlas._

_What is heavier:  
The world or its people's hearts?_

\- Darshana S, Atlas still stands but does anyone else?

To Sally's relief, the group arrived back at the theater in time to keep the security guard from locking them out, who, after Edward took him aside, was happy to let the Companions stay and 'keep an eye on the old place', on condition that Edward stayed with them.

The furniture in the Green Room was moved around and more dug out from the props store, and of course, this being a theater, there was no shortage of cushions and various other pieces for bedding. Edward graciously gave up his dressing room to Sally and Beth, choosing instead to camp out with the Doctor in the main lounge; while John, with an apologetic look at Sally, stationed himself with the unconscious Sherlock in Jeremy's dressing room - not that she or any of the others were anxious to volunteer for sick duty!

Tossing and turning on her makeshift bed, Sally thought she knew why this couch had been put in storage; the whole thing seemed to be one large lump, and she was positive there was a broken spring in it somewhere, which twanged loudly whenever she moved. Finally, she gave up, kicking off the velvet curtain she was using for a blanket with a sigh. "That's got to be the worst bed _ever_ \- and I've seen my share of student couches!"

Beth wasn't even trying to sleep, sitting morosely at the dressing table, chin propped on her palm. Pulled out of her thoughts by Sally's voice, she turned with a sympathetic smile. "Aw, I'm sorry."

Sally shrugged. "I guess I thought I was finished with those, since..." Since she'd stopped sleeping over at Kathy's place... "...never mind." She shook her head, focusing gratefully instead on the low murmur of voices coming from the lounge - the Doctor and Edward were obviously having trouble sleeping, too. Hearing a faint sigh to her left, she turned her head and gave her roommate a look of concern. "You okay?"

Beth shrugged. "I guess..."

Sally gave her a Look - how many times had _she_ used that brushoff on well-meaning strangers? "Is that another way of saying 'Not really'?"

"Well, what am I supposed to say?" Beth suddenly shot back. "'No, I'm not okay, because I waited two zedding years to travel in the TARDIS, only to watch my childhood hero get drunk and act like a complete moron'? _While_, I might add, said TARDIS has been stolen and my favorite actor kidnapped. So yeah, I guess, not really!"

Sally's eyes were wide. "Yeah, that would do it..." she agreed weakly, feeling slightly stunned by the sudden outpouring.

Beth heaved another, deeper sigh. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay." Sally shook her head at herself. "I've got to learn to mind my own business." She had to remember: Beth wasn't Kathy. It was going to take time for them to get to know each other well, assuming there _was_ even time...

Beth frowned. "And _I_ should learn to mind my temper. Seriously, Sally, I'm sorry—I shouldn't burst out like that. It's just… been rough…"

"No kidding!" Sally heaved a sigh of her own, smiling ruefully. "John did warn me it wouldn't be boring..."

She was glad to see Beth starting to smile, if only faintly. "You're here because of him?" Sally nodded, blushing, her own smile turning foolish, and Beth's smile became a grin, eyes sparkling. "Oh, wow..."

Sally laughed self-consciously. "That's an understatement! I'd tell you what happened, but, ah..." No, _especially_ not at this time of night...

Beth looked a bit disappointed, but nodded. "I get it - my own story is... yeah, fantastic and not-so-good..."

Sally nodded back, relieved, then grimaced as the memories kept resurfacing anyway without permission. "Let's just say I _used_ to like visiting art galleries..." The one time she'd revisited her favourite place, Rodin's _The Thinker_ had given her the creeps, she couldn't leave again fast enough.

Beth frowned. "Okay..."

Sally hesitated a long moment... then kicked herself - who was she kidding? It wasn't like she was going to meet _any_ other women who could understand even half of what she'd gone through. "John and I got separated at the end of things..." she went on quietly, staring down at the sofa's upholstery, tracing the vine pattern with her fingertips; "and because of how messed-up everything was... I didn't... I couldn't see him again for almost a year." A year's worth of nights spent lying awake, ears straining for the screech of the TARDIS, even in her dreams...

Beth's mouth had become an 'o'. "...oh gosh, Sally, I'm sorry. That's..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

Sally gave her a smile of pure empathy. "You too, huh?" It wasn't hard to see that Beth was in pretty much the same boat herself - and as for the object of her affections... well, Sally wasn't even going to comment on that!

Beth stared at her, speechless.

"I mean..." Sally said hastily; "oh God, Beth, I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to..." She sighed as Beth opened her mouth, then closed it, ducking her head, cheeks flaming. Well, this was awkward... "Right... I'll just pry my size seven foot out of my size thirteen mouth..."

Beth gave an involuntary giggle. "Oh, stop it..." She looked back up hesitantly. "I just..." She shook her head, shrugging helplessly.

Sally nodded, hearing clearly what she wasn't saying. "Yeah..." she agreed softly, remembering only too well how it had been for her when she'd thought John wasn't interested. "What can you do..."

Beth closed her eyes, her soft voice plaintive. "I only wanted to be friends. I know I don't have any chance..." She swallowed hard, shaking her head and opening her eyes. "And now I don't know what's wrong."

Sally frowned. "Beth, I think you might have been watching Jeremy Brett a bit too long. Trust me: the real Sherlock Homes doesn't need anyone else to send him off in a huff – he can do that all on his own..." Jeremy's performance had been wonderful, but that didn't mean he truly understood what made the actual detective tick, any more than the rest of them - even John, it seemed lately.

"I know that! I'm sorry, Sally—I can only imagine how much of a brat he's been recently, and, yes, I know he can be that, but... He's also the man who defeated the school bully to teach him a lesson and who was... there for me, really, when my best friend died... and who helped the Doctor make one of the most difficult decisions he ever had to..." Beth shook her head again, voice softening. "Sherlock Holmes can be terrible... but he can also be really wonderful."

Sally smiled wistfully. "I'd love to see some of that." She sighed. "He was all politeness and charm and 'Welcome aboard', right up until he figured out he couldn't talk me into going home..." She felt like an idiot not to have realised in the library what kind of poison he was dripping in her ear, it had hardly been subtle! A quiet huff of despairing laughter escaped her. "If this is what Mary had to put up with, the woman must have been a bloody saint!" And how the heck was _she_ supposed to cope if he wouldn't thaw out?

Beth grimaced. "I'm sorry." The poor kid - this had to be just as rough on her, coming to terms with the darker side of a hero she'd looked up to her whole life.

Sally shook her head gently, but saying firmly, "Don't apologise for him, Beth." Her lips tightened as she looked at the wall separating the two dressing rooms - her John, most likely still awake himself, watching faithfully over the Great Detective... who in his infinite intelligence had all but embalmed himself in finest brandy. "That's his job."

* * *

Jeremy came to slowly, sporadically, in time with the throbbing of his head. He opened his eyes and squeezed them back shut with a choked cry of pain, his head well and truly killing him. He tried to stir and discovered that he couldn't move.

"Oh, good, you're awake," said a pleasant, friendly voice.

Jeremy groaned softly as he opened his eyes again and managed to focus past the pain this time, taking in his surroundings. He found himself in a windowless basement room… strapped thoroughly to a chair. Even his head was immobilised. He couldn't help a slight whimper of pure fear. _Why…?_

Before him sat an average-looking young man in his late twenties, with close-cropped black hair and a lab coat. But… the lab coat was _red_… "Sorry about the restraints," the man said earnestly, "although I'm sure you can appreciate the necessity. You're one slippery customer, so they tell me, Mr. Holmes."

Jeremy blinked blearily, frowning. He hurt all over, down to his bones; his head swam _despite_ being locked into place; and his stomach lurched treacherously. He couldn't _think_ straight, let alone figure out what was going on. "Wha... Wha' are you tal'ing about?"

The man hummed thoughtfully. "That _is_ one prize specimen of a hangover you've got there. I suppose you're not going to be much use to anyone if you can't even think straight." He stood and walked behind Jeremy. There was a slight clatter and returning footsteps. "Now, this won't hurt much…"

Jeremy gave a slight cry at the prick of a needle in the side of his neck. After a moment, his headache started to fade, and he started to breathe easier. Thank goodness, he was feeling more like a human being again.

His host seated himself again. "Better?"

Jeremy tried to nod and sighed when he couldn't. "Much," he murmured. "Who are you?" Unable to help himself, he tried to analyse the situation as he knew Sherlock Holmes would have. "What do you want with me?"

"Me, personally? It's a long list. Been ages since I last had a live human subject, I've got a lot to catch up on." The other man shrugged philosophically. "That all depends, of course."

"What the hell are you on about?" Jeremy said wearily. "What is going on?"

"Damned if I know. The boss wants to talk to you about something." The man put a hand up to his ear. "Ma'am, Mr. Holmes is now fully conscious; he's awaiting your convenience. Yes, ma'am." He returned his attention to Jeremy. "The Director will see you now."

A minute later, the door hissed open behind Jeremy, and a petite blonde woman in a tailored business suit and sensible shoes walked into his line of sight. She took one look at Jeremy's face, and her eyes widened in shock, swiftly followed by icy fury. She put a hand to her ear and said coldly, "Staff meeting in twenty. Heads are about to roll…" She turned to Jeremy and seated herself, smiling sympathetically. "Our deepest apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Brett. Such an unfortunate error."

Still, what in the world was going on? What did they want with Holmes and why did they want to restrain him like _this_? "Does that mean I can leave now? I would really like to return to my hotel room and rethink my life."

She raised her eyebrows. "_That_ bad, was he?"

He couldn't help a faint pleading note enter his tone. "Madam, _please_. I don't know why I'm here, I don't know who you are, and I really _want to go home_."

"And I would like nothing better than to make that happen, Mr. Brett, truly," she said placatingly. "We would've much preferred to have the real Sherlock Holmes as our guest—" she gave a resigned sigh—"however, we'll just have to make the best of things."

There wasn't any point in attempting to act ignorant regarding Holmes's existence, especially when he was far less than a hundred percent. "What do you want with the damaged penguin? Trust me, he's more of a headache than whatever you're planning is worth."

She smiled, amused. "He has information we need, which we were planning to obtain from him before the Doctor arrived."

He frowned, not liking any part of that sentence. "Who are you?"

"Britain's first, best line of defence against extra-terrestrial invasion," she said proudly, and spread her hands. "Welcome to Torchwood, Mr. Brett."

* * *

Holmes returned to consciousness with extreme reluctance - his skull felt like it was being split open with a hammer and chisel. He managed to crack his eyes open, and immediately regretted it, the glaring lights around the dressing room mirror sending a further stab of pain through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut with a moan, trying to duck his head, but just that slight movement was a mistake, as his roiling stomach decided it was high time to throw in the towel.

He groaned in misery and dread, knowing he simply wasn't going to be able to move fast enough... but then someone turned him over, holding a basin and bracing his forehead as his convulsing body rid itself of what had been poisoning it.

"Half a bottle of brandy on an empty stomach..." Watson's murmur rang in Holmes's ears like a gong. "Honestly, Holmes, a child knows better than that."

"Watson, _please_..." Holmes whimpered, wincing next at the sound of his own voice.

Watson sighed, holding a glass of water to the detective's lips. "You certainly did a number on yourself..."

Unable to argue, Holmes gratefully rinsed his mouth, then began taking tiny sips, still hanging over the edge of the sofa, eyes closed. "If I _ever_... drink like that again..." he moaned feebly, "you have my full permission... to kill me..." He would welcome death with open arms right now...

Watson's response was dry. "I'll keep that in mind. What I would really like to know is what on earth _possessed_ you? You were behaving like a college student - worse, in fact." Very quietly: "It was embarassing..."

Holmes face reddened, thankful that he had an excuse not to make eye contact. "I'm sorry..." he mumbled. His disapproval of Watson's courtship hadn't lessened any; but equally, it would be a cold day in hell before he stopped caring completely about his friend's opinion of him.

Watson's voice softened a little. "Will you promise to behave?"

Without thinking, Holmes started to nod, then grimaced in pain. "Yes..."

There was another sigh. "Oh, Holmes... Apology accepted." Watson carefully lifted him back onto the sofa, replacing the cushion under his head. "Now, we've got to get some food and pain pills into you—we rather need you to be over this."

Holmes couldn't have agreed more.

* * *

Edward tapped softly at the door and opened it, trying not to gag as the acrid scent of vomit reached his nose - poor Watson. "Watson, I found some aspirin in the first aid kit, can he take that?"

Watson rose and came forward, smiling. "Yes, thank you."

"How is he?" The detective looked ghostly pale under the dazzle of the electric lights, which couldn't be helping his headache at all.

"Alive, just barely -" Watson raised an eyebrow at the dark circles under the actor's eyes; "which, I'm afraid, is how you rather look just now. Do you have sleeping pills?" he asked more gently.

Edward grimaced. "Back at the hotel. I hate using them, though."

"I think you should make an exception. Jeremy will need you to be there for him when we get him back, believe me, and you won't do him any good in this state."

Edward's chin jutted stubbornly for a moment, then he grinned ruefully. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

Watson returned the grin. "You're the one who plays me - you tell me."

Edward held up his hands in protest, a slight laugh escaping him - as if he'd dare to presume!

Watson smiled and shook his head, laying a kindly hand on Edward's shoulder. "Go get some rest, Edward. You'll need it."

Edward nodded grimly - that was exactly what he was afraid of - then took a slip of paper from his pocket with the number for his hotel room. "Call me if there's any developments -" He couldn't help adding anxiously, "and for God's sake, be careful."

Watson took the paper, nodding solemnly, but feigning an affronted look. "Edward..." The look turned into was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. "We do this for a living. Go on, now."

Edward nodded reluctantly, hoping he didn't look as envious as he felt. He turned to leave, then stopped. "Oh, and just in case the Great Detective needs spurring on at all..." He grinned; "there's a spare script in my dressing room."

Watson snorted. "Oh, I'm quite sure that would do the trick." He nodded his goodbye and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Watson sat back down beside Holmes, trying to work out how to remove the childproof cap from the plastic pill bottle. "You're going to have to thank Edward profusely later, you know - he's done a lot for us."

Holmes just stopped himself from nodding this time, eyes downcast. "He has been... very kind..." And all whilst worrying himself sick over what might be happening to his best friend...

"Mm." Watson finally opened the bottle and shook out a couple of pills. "He's a good man."

Holmes winced at the noise, but took the offered aspirin, managing to choke them down with the water. He lowered his head back down to the cushion, drawing deep breaths against the returning nausea. How on earth was he supposed to keep anything else down?

Watson's voice was soft but determined. "Even if you can't manage the broth, you should at least have some crackers and get _something_ in your stomach."

"I'll do my best," Holmes muttered grimly, and with Watson's help, started sitting up very slowly. "What time is it?"

Watson checked his watch. "Ah, a quarter to ten." There was another soft knock at the door. "And that'll be the food." Returning to the door, the doctor was surprised to find Beth there. "Thank you, my dear."

"Is he all right?" Beth murmured, passing over the tray.

Watson sensed rather than saw Holmes's guilty flinch behind him, and wasn't surprised this time by the sudden twinge of anger. The poor girl was obviously concerned... but Watson was starting to wonder if there wasn't a bit more to it than that. "Not quite yet," he answered as reassuringly as he could, "but he will be."

"All right," she nodded. "See ya."

Watson sighed, shaking his head as she walked off, then returned to Holmes's makeshift bedside.

Holmes had succeeded in sitting up the rest of the way, massaging his temples. He eyed the food distastefully when it arrived, but took a cracker and started nibbling it gingerly. "So... essentially, we have a little over nine hours left to retrieve Brett before tonight's performance." He shook his head at himself in disgust, wincing again – so much valuable time lost because of his own stupidity...

"Mm..." Watson helped himself to a cracker, his own stomach beginning to scold. "Although I'm not sure that I would entirely count on his being in any shape to perform tonight."

Holmes blanched, he hadn't seriously considered that. "But we should have the TARDIS back by then, as well – shouldn't we?"

Watson shrugged. "Who can say? For all we know, we might have to sacrifice one for the other, temporarily." He patted Holmes kindly on the shoulder. "There's a spare script in the next room, if you'd like to get a head start..."

Holmes glared balefully at the smirking doctor, and reached for the broth.

* * *

**A/N from Sky:** Ouch and oh boy. And, maybe, poor everybody? Let's go with that. Poor Jeremy, especially, though—he certainly didn't sign up for this. (And, for that matter, neither did Beth. Poor kid waits two years for adventures and meeting her hero again and it all quickly goes to hell in a hand-basket...)


	5. Invaders Welcome, Bring The Kids

**==Chapter Five==**

**Invaders Welcome, Bring The Kids**

_To begin with, take warning—I am surely far different from what you suppose._

\- Walt Whitman, "Are you the new person drawn toward me?", Leaves of Grass

The Fellowship of the TARDIS were all sitting out in the actors' lounge again. At least, that's what the Doctor had taken to calling himself and his Companions in his head, until he came up with a better name for them. He clasped and unclasped his hands, all but twitching. He'd been doing a lot of thinking in the past few hours, and a lot of missing his TARDIS. Thank goodness Holmes was feeling better now—they needed all hands on deck.

Speaking of the still-pale detective… Staring at his own clasped hands, Holmes cleared his throat, blushing deeply. Well, thank goodness he still had a sense of shame—the Doctor hadn't been sure after last night… "Erm," he began stiffly, "before proceeding, I... I wish to beg everyone's pardon for... for my behaviour last night. Whatever I may have said or done—and I must confess, I am a little hazy on some of the details... I can assure you that it will not happen again."

Watson smiled in pride and relief. He and the Doctor both knew what it must have cost Holmes to make such a public apology—the Doctor wasn't sure _he'd_ be able to. The Time Lord nodded gratefully. "The important thing, now, is to get Jeremy and the TARDIS back, both in one piece, and that's not likely to be easy."

"Where is Torchwood based out of?" said Beth.

"Canary Wharf. _And_ they're bound to be on alert."

Beth frowned. "Yeah, it sounds like they want you."

The Doctor nodded. "I'm sure they do, and they _are_ going to get me. We just need to make sure that they won't enjoy it."

Watson looked grave. "Doctor, are you sure this is wise? I mean, it's one thing to have a crossover in timelines with a well-wisher, but if your past is in the future of an _enemy_... I shudder to think what kind of a paradox we could end up causing!"

The Doctor shook his head. "Watson, they've got the TARDIS—what other choice do I have?" Not very pleasant ones for him or his ship, thanks.

Watson sighed and glanced hopefully at Holmes, but Holmes shook his head. "What did you have in mind, Doctor?"

The Doctor glanced up at the ceiling. "Weeell, time _used_ to be when I could talk myself into a situation and then talk myself back out of it. So while I'm giving myself up, more or less... you and Watson go for Jeremy, and the girls go for the TARDIS."

Sally frowned. "Oh, well, there aren't _any_ ways that could go wrong."

"Yeah," Beth chimed, "and what am _I_ supposed to be, an intern?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Lose the ponytail and put on a little makeup and I think you might be surprised just how many people wouldn't peg you for seventeen, honey." Jeremy hadn't, and Beth was simply _mature_—she always had been.

She blinked in surprise.

Watson smiled. "Well, we're in a theatre—makeup's certainly not a problem!" He exchanged a grin with Holmes, and it did the Doctor's hearts good to see it. "Or any other disguises, come to that..."

* * *

Jeremy gradually re-awoke after a second, fitful sleep, still feeling tired in his bones. He blinked—he was on a cot. Come to think of it, he could vaguely remember being transferred to a cell from that potential torture chamber. Sighing, he rose slowly, carefully, to a sitting position, head still hurting but not nearly as much as before.

From outside the cell came the Director's voice. "Good morning, Mr. Brett—I hope you're feeling better?"

He looked up and sighed again. The front wall of the cell was a floor-to-ceiling pane of glass, no doubt the unbreakable type. "Just fine and dandy, thanks for asking. What do you want now?"

"Just to invite you to breakfast, nothing hugely sinister—" she keyed the door open—"although you may change your mind after trying the canteen food." She inclined her head invitingly.

He rose slowly and could feel his body creak… but it was still a significant improvement on before. "It's the thought that counts." He held out his wrists, raising his eyebrows. "Do I need cuffs?"

She appeared amused, arching an eyebrow in return. "You're an intelligent man, Mr. Brett—you tell me."

He winced and lowered his hands. "Then why do I feel like my ego just took a blow?" He sighed and shrugged. "After you, ma'am."

The Director led the way up the corridor, stepped into a lift at the end, and pushed an unlabelled button—well, actually, _all_ the buttons were unlabelled. Jeremy tried to note directions and potential landmarks, but everything was very sterile, like something out of _Star Trek_.

In the lift, he smoothed his hair back. He probably looked like death warmed up, but he could at least make the attempt… "So… I _do_ like to know a pretty lady's name if I'm going to share a meal with her."

She chuckled lightly. "Bernice Partington. And don't think I'm not flattered, Mr. Brett, but if I were you, I'd save my breath for more fruitful conversation." The door opened out to another corridor.

He shrugged and said nothing more, simply following her.

* * *

Settled in the canteen with scrambled eggs, Bernice Partington leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee, completely at ease. Jeremy wished he could say the same about himself—he was feeling a bit too nervous to touch his food yet.

"So, no doubt you have questions," she said, waving a hand; "by all means, ask away. I won't guarantee you any answers, of course, but the ones you do get will be honest."

"Well... you're being awfully nice for the boss of people who kidnap and tie down other people…"

She shrugged. "We do what's necessary. Please bear in mind, though, that the worst thing that's happened to you since you arrived is being injected with a painkiller." He begged to differ—complete immobilization was a far cry from respect and hospitality. "We're not heartless monsters, Mr. Brett; on the contrary, our job is to keep the monsters from waltzing on in."

First time travellers and the real Sherlock Holmes, and now monsters and secret organisations. Jeremy took a deep breath, closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened his eyes. "Why doesn't the public know about you? If you're here to protect us, if there are terrible things out there... don't we have the _right_ to know?"

She snorted. "If there's one thing I've learned in dealing with the public, what they hope for most is that tomorrow won't be all that different from today." Her tone turned weary. "Believe me, the last thing most people need to know while getting on with their ordinary, everyday lives is that NASA with all their probes might as well have put up a flashing neon sign saying: 'Invaders Welcome, Bring The Kids.'"

Wincing again, he decided to start picking gingerly at his food. "What are the chances of that happening?"

She gave him a Look. "How exactly do you think we earn our salaries, Mr. Brett? In the last 12 months alone, Torchwood has repelled over 150 assaults and infiltrations by various alien races, and that's just the incidents we know about—there's always someone or something that manages to slip under the radar." Her tone turned sardonic. "And then, of course, there's the Doctor."

His eyes widened. Good grief, how was it possible to keep so much so thoroughly covered up? ...could she be lying? Well, it was certainly _possible_… He frowned. "What's wrong with the Doctor?" He had thrown a bit of a fit at the man, but he'd really seemed nice enough to Jeremy.

Miss Partington responded with a huff of humourless laughter. "How long have you got? He's the reason Torchwood exists."

Jeremy's frown deepened. "What did he do?" He thought of Watson, whom he'd come to think of as one of the best men who had ever lived, and of Sally and Beth, two sweet, apparently intelligent young women… Would they travel with the Doctor if he was so terrible?

"Well, you know he's a time traveller, don't you? The Torchwood Institute was founded in 1879, after a group of cultists tried to turn Queen Victoria into a werewolf. To be fair, they would have succeeded without the Doctor's intervention, and he did get a knighthood out of it—but then Her Majesty banished the Doctor from Great Britain and told him never to come back. She saw in him then what Torchwood has been seeing for the last hundred years: that the Doctor is, at best, a damned nuisance, and at worst, a natural magnet for disaster on a global scale."

He leaned back and crosses one leg over the other. "For example? I'm sorry, but there was no logic in Victoria's decision from what I just heard."

She smiled grimly. "All right, you want an example? Heard of Pompeii? That was him."

He snorted incredulously. "I don't think so."

"The Sack of Rome," she continued coolly, "the Great Fire of London, the sinking of the Titanic, Hiroshima, Kennedy's assassination—he was there for all of them. What exactly he was doing at the time we may never know; the point is that with any historical event which resulted in large amounts of death and destruction, it's a fairly safe bet that he was somehow involved."

Jeremy frowned in disbelief. "Well, here's a thought: maybe he's _saving_ what people he can."

She gave a frustrated sigh. "Do you think we don't know that, Mr. Brett? The clue's in the title: the _Doctor_. Heaven knows he does _try_ to help—most of the time—but the bottom line is that no matter how noble his intentions might be, he inevitably ends up doing more harm than good in the long term.

"The military have done their best to keep an eye on him, but they've never managed to keep him adequately in check—honestly, they treat him more like a stray cat than anything else. I'm sure you know the type: it adopts you against your will, comes and goes as it pleases, deigns to be scratched behind the ears occasionally, and is excessively proud whenever it brings in the odd mouse.

"Torchwood, on the other hand, likens him to a mosquito: a pest who's always turning up when you least expect it, and infecting everyone around him with his own unique brand of chaos. Case in point: look at what he did to Sherlock Holmes."

Jeremy looked away in exasperation upon the mention of the detective. "No, in all honesty, Holmes was hardly worse than I expected." With the benefit of a bit of distance from his ordeal last night, he could give Holmes that. The Great Detective had never been a man Jeremy would cross the street to meet. "A little less mature, maybe, but…" He tilted his head, looking up at the ceiling. "Nooo, hardly worse."

She looked grave. "Mr. Brett, you've been playing your own interpretation of an archetype, a caricature on paper. You haven't had the opportunity to observe the real Sherlock Holmes as we have, in his own time. I'm afraid there is a marked difference between the man who left 1895 with the Doctor, and the man he is now. And it is all too clear to us how he got that way—we've seen it happen before with the Doctor's Companions, many times."

But what if those cracks in the marble just went a little deeper than Jeremy initially thought…? Well, _much_ deeper—he still wasn't impressed with Holmes's behaviour the night before.

"Travelling with the Doctor is an addiction—not unlike a certain seven percent solution. He will show you the wonders of the universe... and all of its horrors, as well. And it changes you. Stay with him too long, you become a shadow of who you were... literally."

He shook his head, still not buying it… and certainly starting to feel in over his head. "I don't believe anybody could lose that much of themselves," he murmured. _He_ hadn't, and manic depression was a force to be reckoned with.

"Well, that's one of the things we wanted to learn when we brought Holmes in: just how much damage has been done to the poor man's psyche, and whether or not it can be repaired."

Jeremy couldn't help a disbelieving laugh. "And how would you go about doing that?"

"If you recall, Mr. Brett," she returned coolly, "I said I wouldn't answer _every_ question."

He frowned, a little stung. "What about the others? What about Watson?"

"Ah, now, Watson is a different matter entirely. The man's a born soldier, after all—and his experiences with the Doctor likely haven't been a great deal worse than anything he experienced in Afghanistan." She smiled. "Besides… call me sentimental, but his relationship with Miss Sparrow appears to be the one positive outcome to this whole affair. The young lady seems set to become the second Mrs. Watson—we're hardly about to interfere with that!"

Jeremy blinked, taken aback by just how much they really knew. "And Beth?"

Bernice pursed her lips, looking wistful. "She's rather an unknown quantity—even I only have restricted access to her files. Understandable: she's from far into the future, we have to take care with regard to causing paradoxes." She sighed. "The joys of dealing with a renegade time traveller…"

He nodded slowly. "Miss Partington, I don't know what you think of me, personally, but the fact is that I'm an _actor_—and that actually means I'm _smart_. I know when I'm being fed the party line. Maybe you believe one hundred percent in everything you've been telling me—you probably do. But I've hardly heard the other side of the story, and I refuse to be persuaded one way or the other until I have."

She nodded approvingly. "I would have been disappointed if you had been. By all means, ask the Doctor for his side of the story when he arrives. He's rarely that forthcoming with us—not that I blame him."

He frowned again. "What do you mean, 'when he arrives'?"

She looked annoyed with herself. "Did I forget to mention...?" She tsked. "I did, didn't I? You weren't the only one we collected last night."

"At this rate," he muttered, "I'm going to need to go back to the pub just to recover…" Aloud, he said, "All right, enlighten me."

"We also succeeded in capturing the Doctor's time machine—without her, he's not going anywhere."

He sighed again. "You're not doing your own image any favours…"

"And even if we hadn't, Mr. Brett, you really don't know the Doctor very well if you think he'd simply abandon you to our tender mercies." She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "He'll be here…"

* * *

After a brief war between pride and curiosity, Holmes did eventually retrieve the script from Edward's dressing room, smuggling it backstage to read while the young ladies were getting ready. Even if he wasn't forced to act as Brett's understudy, he might as well know exactly how the play ended... He looked up guiltily from the last page at the sound of approaching footsteps, hastily shoving the script in between two scenery flats.

Beth appeared around the corner, wearing a dress jacket, blouse and skirt, and wobbling painfully in a pair of high-heeled shoes. "Ohhh... zed..." She looked up from her feet and blinked in surprise at Holmes. "Hi."

Holmes nodded awkwardly, trying not to blush, then his eyes widened as he finally noticed that Beth had changed more than just her clothes. She was wearing lipstick and eyeliner, her hair hung loosely down to her shoulders, and around her neck was a gold chain which held a heart-shaped locket. Curious... he hadn't noticed her wearing it when she first came aboard, yet it was too tarnished to be costume jewellery. He had to admit that the Doctor had been right, though: incredible what a difference a touch of makeup could achieve, she looked a good five years older...

He realised in some consternation that he was staring - but mercifully, Beth hadn't seemed to notice, limping over to the nearest wall and leaning against it to take the shoes off, groaning.

Holmes frowned, came over and picked up the shoes, tsking as he examined them. "Now, who picked these out?"

Beth sank to the floor, taking the weight off her feet. "That was all we could find that fit."

"But you're only going to attract attention in these - you're clearly unused to walking in them, and you'll most likely cripple yourself in the process." Holmes would never understand most females' willingness to torture themselves for the sake of fashion - but he would have thought Beth had more sense, at least.

She shook her head. "No matter what, it's gonna be painful—I don't do heels. I mean…" She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I don't need them."

Holmes nodded. "Precisely. If I may offer some advice? It isn't the shoe that is important, so much as the movement. One simply can't walk in heels the way one does in flats."

Beth frowned up at him. "Have you seriously worn heels for disguises?"

He found himself smiling at her naïveté. "Does that really surprise you?"

She shook her head. "But you'd make a… noticeably tall woman."

He shrugged. "Which has been no bad thing, on occasion. Anyhow... the secret to walking in heels is to walk a straight line, one foot directly in front of the other - as if you were walking a tightrope. And keep your head up, don't look down at your feet, or you'll lose your balance."

She stared at him a few moments, then said deadpan, "Heels are evil."

His lips twitched. "But as you just pointed out, you have no need for them. Simply wear your own shoes and practice walking in the manner I've described, and no one is likely to notice anything unusual. How often do you look closely at another person's feet?"

"Not that often, I guess," she sighed. "Thanks..."

He bowed slightly. "My pleasure." And to his surprise, it had been; he hadn't realised until this moment just how much he'd missed that side of detective work. Perhaps he and Brett had slightly more in common than he'd first thought...

"Sherlock?" Beth's faint smile had disappeared.

He straightened, tensing instinctively at her soft, hesitant tone. "Yes?"

She winced, eyes filled with the same hurt and bewilderment that had been in Watson's earlier. "Just... what were you doing last night? I mean... you had so much to drink... it was scary."

The strange, sudden pang of guilt that welled up at the sincerity of her last words only served to discomfit him further. "I apologise if I alarmed you," he answered stiffly, "but as I said earlier, it will not happen again."

"That wasn't what I asked."

"Forgive me, but I see no need to revisit the subject." The others all seemed content to let the matter rest, why couldn't she?

Beth rose slowly to her feet again, wincing slightly. "Maybe I don't understand."

Oh, and that entitled her to more of an explanation than anyone else? "What would you like me to say? I admit it: I let you down, I let everyone down - is that not enough?"

To his chagrin, she shrank back slightly against the wall, faltering, "I just... You weren't _you_..."

"In what way?" he frowned. What the devil did she want from him, a pledge of sobriety? "As much as it pains me to say it, that was not the first time I have been intoxicated..." His eyes narrowed, tone becoming ironic as the light started to dawn. "Or did my losing control to something other than cocaine shatter your illusion of the Great Detective?" He doubted that even a _fangirl_ would think that getting drunk was truly any worse than getting high!

Beth's blushing silence was eloquent, staring at the floor as if willing it to swallow her up.

Holmes nodded grimly, supposing that he shouldn't really have been surprised. For a very brief time, he'd dared to hope she understood that he was more than a mere character in a book - but going with her to see the play had made it all too clear that even now, she would still rather put her faith in a fairy tale. "My deepest apologies..." he murmured bitterly, and turned to leave.

"No!" Her voice was anguished. "Sherlock, I'm sorry!"

He turned back, frown becoming deeper. "For what?" He sighed heavily. "Beth, I do understand, somewhat. You've been raised on Watson's stories all your life, our literary counterparts. Compared with that, reality places a poor second - for myself, at least. Watson, I think, did far greater justice to himself in those accounts."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, gazing at him helplessly - and all at once, his anger started draining away, to be replaced by pity. Poor, foolish child... 'always 1895', indeed.

He smiled at her sadly and turned to go back to the Green Room, nodding down at her feet. "Keep practising."

* * *

**A/N from Ria:** Ouuuch, this last scene was seriously painful to roleplay. Sure, Beth had the right to be upset over the reasons Holmes got drunk – but to berate him for doing something because it didn't 'fit' with his literary persona, that really wasn't fair! (And to all Discworld fans, there's a reason the Director's line sounds familiar! ;) Rest in peace, Sir Terry.)

**A/N from Sky:** I think it scared Beth and pulled her completely out of the comfort zone in which she'd _thought_ she knew him—though she still didn't handle her curiosity well. But I also think this was a conversation they needed to have... you'll see why in the future... ;)

Let us know what you thought! Also, have a good Passover and a Happy Easter!


	6. An Odd Proposal

**==Chapter Six==**

**An Odd Proposal**

_"How can I hold you close enough?"_  
― Henrik Ibsen, A Doll's House

The four Companions had gathered in the Green Room, watching the Doctor tinkering with the three TARDIS keys. Watson found himself wondering when Sally was going to receive one, he'd have to speak to the Doctor about that later...

"All right, almost got it..."

Sally was the first to ask, "Doctor, what are you doing?"

"TARDIS keys," he replied. "Pieces of the old girl, all with low-level perception properties because the TARDIS is designed to blend in. Well, sort of. Boost the power on those perception filters, and... Sally, look at me. You can see me, yes?"

Sally raised an eyebrow, wondering what exactly was about to happen. "Yes."

"What about now?" He took one of the keys, threaded on a string, and put the string around his neck.

_Good grief_. She _tried_ to look straight at him, where she _knew_ he was, but her gaze kept sliding away.

"No, I'm here. Look at me."

She shook her head in wonder. "It's like I know you're there, but I don't _want_ to know." That was amazing, although the fact that this kind of mind-influencing technology existed was kind of scary.

"And back again." Watson rubbed his eyes when the Doctor took the string back off - he'd had far less trouble keeping eye contact with the Weeping Angels! "See? It just shifts your perception a tiny little bit. Doesn't make us invisible, just unnoticed. Oh, I know what it's like. It's like, it's like when you fancy someone and they don't even know you exist. That's what it's like."

Wincing at the analogy, Sally glanced over at Beth, who was watching but looking miserable. The girl seemed wrapped up enough in her troubles that she hadn't even reacted to the Doctor's rather unfortunate metaphor.

Watson's gaze went from Beth's face to Holmes's, deeply troubled himself. The detective's expression when he came in from backstage told Watson clearly that those two had had yet another encounter, which also hadn't ended well.

The Doctor held out the finished keys to Holmes and Watson. "These are for you two and Jeremy - they'll get you past the guards." He took another key from his pocket, along with the psychic paper, and tossed them to Beth. "And _that's_ psychic paper - people will see what you claim to be."

"Nice." Beth was still sounding worryingly subdued. For his part, Watson was sorely tempted to take Holmes aside and box his ears before telling him some hard home truths... but it wasn't for him to interfere this time, especially since neither of them had asked his advice. As much as he hated the thought, he would simply have to stand back for now and let the pair work things out on their own.

He sighed, then looked at his key thoughtfully, put it on and strolled off towards the stage. It wouldn't do any harm to test the Doctor's handiwork prior to invading the enemy's camp - besides, he needed a few minutes alone to clear his head.

* * *

Watson stood at the edge of the orchestra pit, gazing out across the dark auditorium to where their group had been sitting last night, absently humming the violin music from the overture. It had been a long time since he'd last heard Holmes play, now that he came to think of it - he had to admit, he missed his friend's spontaneous concerts, although the alley cat impressions not so much. Still, he'd welcome the sight of the detective making any kind of music at the moment - there was no saying but what it might help to soothe his troubled spirit.

Despite Holmes's handsome apology earlier, Watson knew perfectly well that the underlying issues were far from being resolved. He would have been inclined to think that Holmes's attitude of late was because of his own courtship... except that Holmes had stepped in only yesterday and actually given him sound advice on the subject! Watson couldn't imagine that his friend could have brought himself to do something so pro-active, unless he was beginning to accept the idea that Sally really wasn't going anywhere.

If he didn't know better, the doctor would be inclined to think that Holmes's recent attitude towards Jeremy had been prompted by... well, jealousy! But although the detective was hardly the brain without a heart Watson had once so stupidly labelled him, Holmes appeared entirely blind to any of Beth's charms; if anything, he seemed to regard her as even more of a child than when she'd been his student.

Well, perhaps that was for the best. Beth would eventually return to her own time, too, and Watson certainly didn't wish for the poor girl's heart to be broken by having false hopes raised. It did seem a shame, though - it was clear that she and Sally were already becoming fast friends, which both girls were badly in need of after their earlier adventures with the Doctor... not that that had been the Time Lord's fault, of course, but still...

* * *

Sally needed to spend one last quiet moment with John before they left, because who knew what was going to happen once they did? Having searched around for a couple of minutes, she heard him humming and followed that sound out onto the stage. He was there, all right... but her eyes would not focus on him no matter how hard she tried.

She sighed. "John, take it off, please. My eyes are already starting to hurt, trying to look straight at you."

He took the string off at once, turning to face her with an apologetic smile as he tucked the key away in his coat pocket. "I'm sorry, my dear - I'd quite forgotten about it."

Shaking her head fondly, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, kissing his cheek comfortingly. Once again, he looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

He hugged her back, smiling at the kiss, but soon sobered again. "I'm worried, Sally," he murmured. "Holmes and I have encountered Torchwood before with the Doctor, back in its early days. They tried to maroon the Doctor in Time by destroying the TARDIS... and they almost succeeded." Those two agents could count themselves fortunate to have escaped the wrath of the Oncoming Storm by a hair. "Heaven only knows what they plan to do with her this time..." He shook his head. "And I'm sure you've seen the look in the Doctor's eyes, he's deathly afraid of losing her, which worries me all the more. Because when the Doctor is that scared, he becomes even more of a wild card – _anything_ could happen."

Her own expression sobering, she rubbed his back comfortingly as she listened. "John," she said quietly, "God knows, I'm still terribly, terribly new to all this. But if... if the Doctor has lived as long as he has, if you and... Sherlock... survived Professor Moriarty, if the four of us survived the Weeping Angels..." She smiled slightly. "I _think_ we're going to be okay."

Watson couldn't help smiling back, eyes shining proudly. "My brave girl..." He cupped her cheek and took a deep, quiet breath. "You know... the TARDIS is a magnificent lady – and she's been wonderfully kind to Holmes and I ever since we left Baker Street..." He closed his eyes, rested his forehead on hers; "but it wasn't until you were there with me that first time, in my arms... that she truly felt like home." He opened his eyes again, smiling hesitantly but tenderly. "Because I think I've known from the minute we ran into each other... that home is wherever you are." And after everything that they had faced together, he could finally dare to believe that she felt as he did.

Her eyes shining past sudden tears, she pressed his hand with hers against her cheek. She wasn't sure what she had done to deserve a love like this, but she wasn't about to argue with it. She smiled back, too happy for words.

He would probably never understand just how she managed to keep stealing his breath away like that. "Sally... will you marry me?"

A thousand times, yes... She nodded wordlessly, her heart full to bursting, and kissed him softly.

He returned it reverently, joy flooding through him - of all the wonders he'd seen in the TARDIS, not the greatest of them could compare with this.

Against his lips, she whispered, "Yes, I will." She couldn't imagine feeling more loved than she did in this moment, or more in love. She felt _whole_.

"Oh, Sally, love!" Beaming from ear to ear, he put his arms back around her, kissed her again with fervour; the whole theater could have been standing room only at that moment, and he wouldn't have cared.

She grinned and kissed him back, winding her arms around his neck, completely content.

Reluctantly coming back up for air, Watson murmured, "I love you, Sally - so much." More and more, words seemed completely inadequate to describe how he felt about her.

She smiled and nuzzled at his jaw. "I would hope so," she murmured. She flashed him a grin and rested her head on his shoulder. "I was trying so hard to be levelheaded when we first knew each other, but the truth is... I think I'd fallen hard for you. I just didn't quite understand it until, well, you were gone... I read your journal—" she blushed—"and all your stories again... and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were the man I wanted to marry."

He blushed himself, then smiled wryly as he realised: "Mm, and isn't that going to make life interesting?"

She grinned again. "Oh, absolutely."

He sobered again as another more worrying thought occurred. "And Sally, we do need to talk about that. When we get to Torchwood, there is a strong possibility that we'll be discovered, in spite of all precautions; and if they know you're from the future, they may try to send you back to your own time, on the grounds that your knowledge of Holmes's future cases poses too great a risk." He took her hands, gaze earnest. "But I promise you that I will do everything in my power to ensure that this time, whatever else happens, we stay together."

Her hands tightened on his. "Don't think I'll let them, either," she murmured, and held him close. "I can't do that again." Never again.

"Neither could I." He closed his eyes, praying silently to whoever might be listening that it wouldn't come to that - he would truly be lost without her.

* * *

After lunch, the Director took Jeremy to a storage bay, in which two armed guards stood watch over… a police call box? Smiling smugly, Bernice waved a hand at the box, but there was more than a touch of wonder beneath the professional façade. "There she is—the TARDIS."

He frowned. "It's… a police call box. It's been ages since I've seen one... _That's_ a time machine?"

"Actually, no, she only looks like one. As far as we understand it, she's _meant_ to be able to blend in wherever she lands—but for some reason she stays looking like this. Not that we're complaining, it's a lot easier to track her and the Doctor through history this way."

He shook his head slowly. "It's _small_."

Her eyes gleamed mischievously. "Only on the outside."

He glanced heavenward. "All right, so then: bloody big spaceship all inside one little police box?"

He was answered by an approving expression. "Got it in one, well done!" Her eyes and her voice turned wistful. "I'd love to be able to show you... but…" She shrugged helplessly.

He stared at her for a moment, but then he couldn't help grinning. "You stole the box, but you don't have the key." He shook his head, pulling himself back under control. "Sorry."

A flash of irritation crossed her face but was swiftly concealed, and she sighed. "No, it's because she's alive. She has, quite literally, a mind of her own and, as far as she's concerned, we're the enemy."

Eyes widening, he looked at the TARDIS again. Now that was something quite beyond any science fiction programme he'd ever seen. He shrugged after a few moments. "You did steal her."

"I never said she was wrong," Bernice returned calmly. She suddenly put a hand to her ear, smiling. "Excellent." She turned back to Jeremy. "My apologies, Mr. Brett, but you'll have to return to the cells temporarily—we have company."

Two more guards approached, apparently unarmed.

Jeremy threw out his arms and clapped them against his sides. "No problem. I was starting to get tired." He smiled wryly at her and joined his guards—no use in making a fuss. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes or John Watson; he could only play at being an action hero. "Say 'hello' to the Doctor for me."

She inclined her head, expression expectant. "Of course."

* * *

It had been a little while since the Doctor had been in the 1980s—well, he'd been there for so long through several regenerations that he'd honestly gotten a bit tired of it. And the current Torchwood offices were classic '80s, no doubt about it. His arrival had been straightforward, right down to being asked to relinquish his sonic screwdriver, which he'd done—no point in making a fuss yet. After that, he'd been escorted straight up to the Director's office, where he made himself at home, settling into a chair and propping his feet up on the Director's desk, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to relax.

When a suited blond woman at last entered the room, he stood and smiled. "Hello, I'm the Doctor—" he offered his hand—"and you must be the Director. Nice to meet you."

She was smiling slightly as she came forward to shake hands. "A pleasure to meet _you_, Doctor," she said quite sincerely. "Bernice Partington."

"Bernice." Every now and again, names from his past circled back around to find him again. "Lovely name, Bernice." He sat back down, genuine concern creeping into his voice and face. "How is Jeremy? Is he all right?"

"Perfectly well, Doctor," Bernice said kindly; "he sends his regards. And rest assured, Torchwood does intend to compensate him for the lamentable error."

Sighing in relief, he nodded. "Good, good." His tone turned tired, which was entirely genuine—he was used to going without sleep but not with the TARDIS around, even after all that time in 1969. "What did you want with Holmes in the first place?"

Bernice seated herself behind her desk and leaned back in her chair, expression and tone turning serious. "Several things, Doctor, not least of which was determining the extent of his psychological trauma."

The Doctor's eyes widened in shock, instantly thinking of Polaris 7. _But how they would know about that?!_ "What are you talking about?" he said, tone making clear that he wasn't evading but wanting to know what they knew.

She gazed at him steadily. "I think you know perfectly well what I'm talking about, Doctor," she said quietly. "How long has Mr. Holmes been associated with you by now?" She raised a hand as he opened his mouth. "I'm not asking dates or locations, just the length of time—something you, as a Time Lord, ought to know precisely."

Properly chastised, he murmured, "Six months." His stomach began to churn, having a bad feeling about where this was going.

She nodded gravely. "In other words, quite long enough. Torchwood has been closely observing Sherlock Holmes ever since his first encounter with you in Tibet, Doctor. I'm sure you can imagine our relief that he refused your first invitation."

He sat up straight in his chair, mind racing, horrified. "How do you know about that? There's no way you should know about that!"

"I believe the name Lao-Tse is familiar to you?" she returned coolly. "According to the files, one of our more promising foreign operatives at that time."

His jaw dropped, and he fell back against his chair, only distantly feeling the collision.

She smiled. "A most serendipitous turn of events: you and Sherlock Holmes both arriving in the right place at the right time—don't think we're not grateful, Doctor." Her smile faded. "Sadly, however, it is clear that the good you did Mr. Holmes on your initial acquaintance has since been undone, with a vengeance."

"He's going to be all right," the Doctor protested. "He's just been through a lot lately—he's still recovering."

She slanted a stern eyebrow. "I shudder to think from what."

Rankled by her sternness, he frowned. He didn't appreciate being _schooled_ like a kid still in the Academy. "You _definitely_ should, and I almost _did_ take him home." He gave a slight, helpless laugh. "Only reason it didn't happen was because nobody wanted it to." Would it have done any good anyway? Sherlock just needed some time yet to adjust, maybe another event he could help to solve, in which he would actually _help_ people. The Doctor and the TARDIS had been scouring Time for candidates.

He leaned forward, trying to make her understand. "Bernice, he's still okay. He isn't doing the greatest right now, I'll agree, but he is still alive and still okay."

Her answering smile was humourless. "Well, I won't bother asking you to define 'okay', Doctor—because the pertinent question is: for how much longer? You said it yourself: he didn't want to go home. Did he tell you how long it took him to adjust back to the 'slow path' after you parted ways in Tibet?"

A chill ran down his spine at hearing Holmes's exact words—not even Lao-Tse would have heard that. There was a secret buried deep in Torchwood… and once he got back out of here, he was going to find out what it was. "No... but I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"Eighteen months, roughly—and if not for his reconciliation with Dr. Watson, it would no doubt have taken considerably longer."

The Doctor opened his mouth, frowning—all this information was way too precise.

"And before you ask: no, we had nothing to do with Watson's tragic loss," Bernice said severely. Then her voice softened. "Believe me, Doctor, I wish we _could_ have intervened on his behalf."

Nodding slowly, he murmured, "I appreciate that." Time to do a little digging of his own. "Who was Torchwood's psychic expert in the 1890s? Someone was able to give your men psychic training and send me a message that required... more power than most people have. Who was it?"

She frowned apologetically. "I'm sorry, Doctor—but that information is classified, even to me. It's a time sensitive dossier, set to open at an unspecified date in the future. I do hope you understand: given that Torchwood has been forced to contend with a renegade time traveller on a regular basis, second guessing one's predecessors becomes an immensely risky proposition." She smiled wryly. "But look on the positive side: you're now perfectly placed to find out, in time—assuming my successors are as accommodating."

"Torchwood won't be around in a hundred years," he said softly. He couldn't save Yvonne… but he could at least try to save Bernice. "UNIT survives... but Torchwood doesn't."

She looked amused. "My word, that long? However will we occupy ourselves until then, I wonder?"

"Bernice," he said gravely. "For your own sake, get out while you can and take anybody that you like with you. I _saw_ what happened to one of your successors—and believe me, _no one_ deserves that fate."

Briefly, she looked taken aback, but then she sighed in exasperation. "You know, Doctor, it's moments like this that simply reinforce the purpose of this institute. I do understand you mean well, and I thank you for your concern... but that future is fixed now, and our attempting to evade it will only ensure it. Besides, how could you think that anyone here would so readily abandon their duty to Queen and country, in favour of such cowardly self-preservation? That may be your attitude, Doctor, but it cannot be ours—" her lips thinned, tone turning tart—"and to put it quite bluntly, we're fed up with it."

His eyes narrowed. "Then _you're_ the ones who don't get it," he said sharply. "All of history is one giant, never-ending disaster, and once you get that, you want to keep as many people safe as you can. Can't rescue the whole _Titanic_, but if you can keep just one family from getting on board, that's one family that won't be separated or drowned."

She smiled grimly. "You're referring to the Daniels family, I suppose?" Her eyes narrowed, fingers steepling. "Tell me, Doctor, why that family?"

His gaze went distant as he remembered… that had been soon after the Time War, and a time he'd sooner forget. "I met them on the street... the kids were all excited, going to see relatives in Canada…" He shook his head, murmuring, "I couldn't do it. I couldn't let them go."

Her face was completely expressionless as she listened. "And what happened then, after you convinced them not to sail?"

He smiled thinly. "Not that it's any of your business, but _I_ sailed because I was trying to take my own life."

"You've no idea, have you?" she said softly, a faint contemptuous note in her voice. The look in her eyes told him that she knew what happened to the family next.

"Once again," he said uneasily, "I have the feeling you're going to enlighten me."

"Since they were still in need of a fresh start, Mr. Daniels took the family to Coventry, where he eventually found work as an architect for the new housing developments." Her tone turned cold, as did his blood. _Coventry_. "Perhaps you'd rather not hear how many of their future family were still living there in 1940…"

He blanched, eyes burning. "So it doesn't matter, then—saving anybody. It's pointless. Is that what you're saying?"

Her eyes flashed. "I'm _saying_, Doctor—having watched you trample your way through human history since mankind was old enough to draw the TARDIS on cave walls—that Queen Victoria had you bang to rights! Almost every time you interfere, you end up making things far worse! And we've had enough of you running around, playing the temporal vigilante, unanswerable to anyone but yourself."

"Well, _sorry_, but the simple fact of the matter is that _you need me_. Yes, there is going to come a day when the human race can fully, competently take care of itself, but you're not there yet. You're still children—no, teenagers. You think you know enough to go it on your own and you don't."

She seemed to force a smile, clapping her hands together. "Excellent!" she said brightly, putting him instantly on-guard. "We're agreed, then."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed further. "Agreed on what?"

Bernice pressed a button on her desk, and a quartet of guards entered, two of whom took hold of the Doctor's arms.

_No, no, no, no!_ "What are you doing?"

From her desk drawer, Bernice took an odd-looking torc-like collar. "You need to keep an eye on Earth? That's just fine with us, Doctor... as long as you do it from here." She came to him and clasped the collar around his neck, locking it in place. "Consider yourself now a permanent guest of Torchwood."

He swallowed hard. "What does it do?" He had a sinking suspicion he knew already, though—he'd seen such things before, on slaves and prisoners…

She snorted. "You think we'd give you a detailed description? A labelled schematic, perhaps? This collar tells us when and where you are—that's all _you_ need to know, for now."

The Doctor took a deep breath, forcing himself not to panic... or worse, get angry. He didn't need that right now. "And the TARDIS?"

"Oh, don't worry, Doctor, we've no intention of parting the two of you. In fact, you're very fortunate—you're allowed to take her on one last voyage before she's clamped."

His eyes blazed—mess with the Time Lord all you want, but do _not_ mess with his TARDIS. "What do you intend to do with her?" he growled.

She waved an airy hand. "Nothing whatsoever. She'll simply be a permanent resident, like you. Unfortunately, visiting hours might be a little difficult to arrange, so I strongly advise you to savour this last trip."

But any TARDIS stuck in one time and place would slowly deteriorate and die. And to let it happen like _this_, at the hands of a foolish, arrogant enemy… was unthinkable. "When to?" he said hoarsely.

"Eighteen ninety-five, of course. I understand we have some last-minute arrivals who are rather desperately in need of a ride home…"

* * *

**A/N from Ria:** Okay, a couple of elements still turned up from Martha's season! The TARDIS keys as camouflage were just too good to lose... as was the Doctor's line. Ouch... *hugs Beth*

**A/N from Sky:** *makes it a Beth sandwich* Poor Doctor, too—Bernice has a point, but she's not making it the best way. And maaaan, Torchwood... it just gets more complicated all the time! ;) Stay tuned, and **_please review!_**


	7. Boxed In

**==Chapter Seven==**

**Boxed In**

_"Cage an eagle and it will bite at the wires, be they of __iron or of gold."_  
― Henrik Ibsen, The Vikings of Helgeland

Neither Sally nor Beth felt very confident as they entered the storage bay where the TARDIS stood, guarded by two soldiers, male and female. The girls traded uneasy glances, and then Sally forced herself to exude professional confidence, something she hadn't used since working in the college library. It felt a bit stiff, putting that on after a couple of months of disuse.

"All right, fellas," she said, "here we go—key to the blue box, just retrieved."

"We _think_ it's the key," Beth added, deepening her voice slightly. She prayed the soldiers couldn't see the way her heart seemed to throb in her throat.

Sally nodded. "We're pretty sure. We just need to check."

The man looked at them oddly for a moment and exchanged glances with his female colleague. Sally's stomach pirouetted. "Can I see your authorisation, ladies?"

"Of course." Sally held up the psychic paper. Please, let this work…

The man studied at the paper for a moment, then raised his eyebrows with a small smile. "Well, now, isn't that interesting?" He raised his gun and pointed it at Sally, smile widening, eyes hard as stone. "Two strange women walk into a restricted area with a blank piece of paper," he said cheerfully; "can't wait to hear this one explained!"

The woman hummed in agreement, her gun trained on Beth.

Neither girl gave anything away despite a round of inward cursing each. Beth slowly folded her arms, more irritated now than afraid.

"That's _supposed_ to be my authorisation," Sally said coolly.

"Well, then," the man said evenly, "either someone's playing one hell of a joke in Admin—or you can cut the act and hand over the key, Miss Sparrow."

The woman grinned unapologetically. "Sorry, love, psychic paper doesn't work here—everyone at Torchwood gets a basic training in ESP." She swept the area with her gaze. "Your boyfriends around, too, are they?"

Sally lifted her chin, eyes blazing.

"I think," Beth returned just as evenly, "we'd have to be idiots to tell you, either way." _Boyfriends_? Somebody had obviously gotten their intel mixed up.

The man nodded. "Fair enough. Drop the key, please, and up against the wall."

The girls looked at each other. Beth nodded minutely—the Doctor wouldn't want them to get hurt over the key. Sally sighed in frustration and dropped it. The two turned and walked over to the wall to stand against it. Great. Just great.

The man put his hand to his ear. "Area Ten to Security. We have the two females in custody; request an escort detail to Head Office."

The woman picked up the key, stepped back, and re-aimed her gun at the pair. She nodded down at Beth's feet and said, sincerely enough, "Nice shoes."

"Thanks."

* * *

Holmes and Watson peered cautiously out of the elevator as the doors opened onto yet another empty, featureless corridor. Thanks to the unlabelled buttons, they'd been riding to seemingly random floors for the last ten minutes, although thankfully no one else had tried to take the lift they were in.

Watson swallowed hard, taking a few deep breaths - what he wouldn't have given for a friendly A.I. like Dash. "Dear Lord, I hope we can stop soon. I think I'm getting motion sickness."

Holmes shot him a pained glance. He was feeling more than a little off colour as well, the constant shunting up and down not helping the last of his hangover in the slightest. "Well, feel free to complain to management," he muttered, then sighed at himself, giving Watson an apologetic look before turning his attention back to the corridor. His eyes widened suddenly, murmuring, "But I believe..." He exited the lift and glided forward; "we may have just found the right level..." and picked up a tiny, white cylinder from the floor next to the wall.

"What is it?"

Holmes turned back to the lift, holding out the mysterious object, although he would lay odds he knew what it was: a cigarette filter. "Brett left us a signpost."

Watson echoed the detective's approving grin. "Good man." He stepped out of the lift, relieved to be able to stop yo-yoing for a while, and looked up and down the corridor. "Now, where is he...?"

Holmes shrugged, but he couldn't deny that the thrill of the hunt was already working on him. "We'll just have to find out the old-fashioned way." He put the filter back and led the way down the left-hand corridor.

Watson smiled, glad to see his friend's eyes gleaming in a way they hadn't since tracking the plasmavore in Paris. "Do you think," he murmured, "that we could stand directly in front of a guard without his seeing us?"

Holmes gave him a Look. "Have you forgotten what the Doctor told us already? We're camouflaged, not invisible - and do bear in mind that Torchwood personnel are trained to see through the TARDIS's perception filter."

Watson winced. "I had forgotten _that_..."

Holmes gritted his teeth. It was bad enough that the doctor was so nauseatingly moonstruck on his own time, but for him to lose focus on a case because of That Woman was adding insult to injury.

Watson sighed, kicking himself - just when things were starting to improve between the two of them, he had to go and accidentally sour Holmes's mood all over again.

Spying around the next corner, they saw a guard standing a few dozen feet away outside what appeared to be a cell door, although they couldn't see its occupant from here. The two men exchanged meaningful nods, then walked swiftly and silently on either side of the hallway towards the guard.

As they got nearer, Watson noticed in dismay that the guard was growing visibly uneasy, finally turning to look along the corridor in their direction. His eyes widened in alarm as he spotted Watson for a second, then slid away again the next moment. He swiftly raised his weapon, blinking and squinting, trying to refocus on the intruder... then staggered backwards from Watson's solid punch to his jaw.

Thanks to Watson's distraction, Holmes was now behind the guard, and used the hapless sentry's moment of imbalance to bring him to the ground. A rabbit punch to the base of the skull, and the guard was out cold.

Watson knelt beside the man, checking his pulse, then looked up sternly. "Holmes, you promised me – you could kill someone with a blow like that, remember?"

Still nettled, Holmes merely responded with a shrug.

Watson shook his head in exasperation, but decided to leave the subject for another time.

"Hello?" Jeremy stood on the other side of the plexiglass door, looking hopeful but greatly puzzled - as well he might, being unable to see two thirds of the fight!

"Jeremy, it's Watson and Holmes," Watson smiled, choosing to keep the key on for now. "Just give us a minute." He turned to Holmes expectantly - the detective hadn't looked in the least dismayed by the number keypad, despite not having the Doctor's sonic screwdriver.

Holmes nodded and stepped up to the door, looking at the the 10-digit keypad consideringly... then sealed his hands around his mouth and the keypad, breathing warm air over the keys. A swift inspection of the pad revealed tell-tale smudges on four of the keys. "Two, four, five, nine - I hope we get more than one attempt at this..."

Watson gave a slight laugh of amazement. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Holmes shrugged modestly. "Television in '69 wasn't all bad... we saw a lot of spy show reruns." The Doctor had been particularly fond of _The Avengers_.

Watson grinned and shook his head as Holmes started working through the possible combinations. "Have you actually watched anyone unlock this?" he asked Jeremy.

"Ah, yes, once..." Jeremy frowned, concentrating. "The first number... was four, and... the last number was nine."

Holmes stared at the actor in surprise, impressed in spite of himself; with only two possibilities left, he soon had the door open.

Jeremy gave his rescuers a sheepish smile as they appeared in front of him without the keys. "Hello."

Watson immediately started checking him over. "How do you feel?"

"Not bad, all things considered…" The actor's eyes widened. "Oh, God, where's the Doctor?"

"What's wrong?"

"They've had this planned out for a long time," Jeremy said urgently. "Taking the TARDIS and... we really need to go."

Holmes fished in his pocket for the third key. "Here - put this around your neck."

"What does it do?"

Watson put his own key back on. "Makes it difficult for anyone else to really see you."

"All right, okay."

"But it's not infallible," Holmes said dryly as he replaced his own key, "so try not to be too flamboyant." The glint in his eye dared Jeremy to make any kind of comment regarding the night before - he was going to have a hard enough time living that down as it was.

Jeremy stared hard at him. "Forget flamboyance. We. Need. To. Go. Right now." He started striding towards the lift, the other two close behind.

"What have you learned?" Holmes asked.

"That they have _very_ detailed dossiers on all of you, the girls included, _and_ that this whole thing has been very, very meticulously planned." Jeremy glanced back at Holmes. "All they were missing from their original plan was you."

Holmes nodded grimly. "That much I gathered. And despite the mixup, they still managed to get to the Doctor, and the TARDIS. But what do they want them for?"

Jeremy frowned. "They don't... _approve_... of the Doctor's choices..."

On reaching the lift, Holmes gathered up the cigarette filter again, giving Jeremy a nod of approval - but Jeremy only looked right back at him in complete confusion. "What?"

Holmes returned the look for a brief moment, then closed his eyes, kicking himself mentally as he realised. "Ohhh..." he breathed. "Oh, they _are _clever..." And he was a complete jackass to have been taken in so easily.

The three were startled by a female voice interrupting from a speaker in the open lift. "Well done, Mr. Holmes! Now, if you and your colleagues would be so good as to step inside?"

Jeremy closed his eyes, clearly recognising the voice; Watson grimaced, hoping that the girls were all right, at least.

Holmes frowned, he could see that they really didn't have much choice. Drawing himself up, he entered the lift, Jeremy and Watson following. As soon as all three were inside, the doors closed and the lift started to rise. Holmes glanced over at Watson, not liking the deep anxiety in his friend's eyes, or the fact that he had no idea of what to say to reassure him. Torchwood might have improved slightly in its treatment of 'guests', but there was still no telling who they might consider expendable...

The lift halted abruptly, the doors opening onto yet another sterile corridor, with one major difference: an escort of several armed guards stood waiting. Holmes favoured them with a mirthless smile, irresistibly reminded of a Judoon squad. "Lead on, gentlemen."

* * *

Entering the Director's office, Watson was deeply relieved to find that the girls and the Doctor were all apparently unharmed... but that strange collar the Doctor now wore was certainly cause for concern, judging by the flicker of barely-controlled panic in the Time Lord's eyes. What the _hell_ was going on?

The Doctor gave the newcomers a deeply apologetic look and turns back to Bernice, frowning. "All right, so, gang's all here. Now what?"

"As we've already discussed, Doctor," Bernice said calmly, "you have one last return journey to make."

The Time Lord's eyes narrowed. "Now I know what that trip is supposed to be, but that's leaving somebody out of the equation." His gaze slid towards a skittish-looking Beth.

"Elizabeth and Mr. Brett will remain here, for now," said the Director. Sally frowned—what the heck was going on? "Upon your _immediate_ return from 1895, Mr. Brett will be released from custody." The Director turned to Jeremy. "Just as you wanted, Mr. Brett, you may return to your hotel room and rethink your life; Torchwood wishes you all the best for the future..." Then she turned to Sally, smiling. "...and you, Miss Sparrow. Our warmest congratulations to you and Dr. Watson."

Sally's jaw fell open. If these people were the Doctor's enemies, then why...? Was her and John's future in their files? Well, if her future was in their past, it must be... Still... why?

Holmes stood immobile, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. Up till now, he had still nursed the hope that Watson and Sally would eventually discover that they weren't suited, and Sally would return to her own time... but now, the memory of the pair's glowing faces when they returned from backstage was taking on a whole new significance. Watson had proposed, Sally had accepted... and Watson hadn't even bothered to tell his best friend!

Watson's eyes were wide as he put two and two together, astonished that the Institute was prepared to allow such a thing, although he definitely wasn't about to question _that_ decision. "And Beth? Why not have the Doctor take her home as well?"

The Director waved a hand. "Unnecessary, Dr. Watson. Travelling to the future is a great deal simpler than travelling to the past, all it requires is patience... well, that and a stasis unit."

Beth went white. A stasis unit... she'd be _frozen_. Frozen for over a hundred years to be thawed out by God only knew whom... "No..." She met the Doctor's gaze, pleading silently with him to think of _something_.

He gave her the tiniest nod. "That's not fair to her," he said solemnly.

"Don't think to lecture me on what's fair and what isn't, Doctor," the Director said scornfully; "I've _seen_ your particular brand of justice, remember?" She turned to Beth, her tone turning kind. "My dear, there truly is nothing to be concerned about. You won't even be aware of the intervening time; for you, the years will pass in the blink of an eye..."

Beth smiled thinly, contempt in her eyes—this woman had no right to dictate her life. "Nice. What happens to the Doctor?"

Holmes's disbelief increased tenfold as he listened, appalled by the Director's tone of total unconcern. He'd be willing to lay good odds that this stupid woman had never undergone what she was so coolly proposing - but the detective hadn't forgotten his own harrowing experience with similar methods, and the look of terror in Beth's face told him clearly that she also would rather die. No, this would not do, there must be another way...

The Director spread her hands. "The Doctor wishes to keep an eye on us," she replied in a reasonable tone, "and we wish to do the same for him. Therefore, he and the TARDIS will remain here, under our supervision—much like he did with UNIT in the '70s."

The blood drained from the Doctor's face—he'd barely been able to endure that kind of imprisonment the first time, and then for only a short while, relatively speaking. He wasn't sure he could do it again, especially indefinitely.

Beth's heart broke at the sight. She'd seen the Doctor's soul through the memories he showed her, and she couldn't bear the thought of _anyone _being caged like that. It wasn't right. And he was clearly in over his head—he couldn't help her. She had to help him...

Heart hammering, she swallowed hard, took a deep breath... Stepped back against a guard, drove her elbow into him, pulled back out with his pistol in hand... and held it to her own head.

Jeremy gasped.

"Beth!" Sally cried, horrified.

"No!" the Doctor cried, equally horrified.

The Director gave a swift warning glance to the guard Beth had just disarmed. Good. Beth would hate to have to actually kill herself or someone else in a struggle for a gun.

She turned her full attention to the Director, willing the woman to understand and back down. She didn't know what she was 'asking' of any of them, clearly. "Take the collar off him and let him go," she said as evenly as she could manage with her heart seeming to throb in the middle of her throat.

Watson could only stare, frozen with horror, grip unconsciously tightening on Sally's hand.

Holmes, on the other hand, was jolted free of his paralysis by the sight, feeling strangely sick. Beth might or might not be bluffing - although he was _fairly_ certain she was! - but she obviously had no idea how deep this hole she was digging for herself could become.

His worst fears were confirmed by the Director, expression of alarm contradicted by her stern response: "Torchwood doesn't negotiate with hostage takers, Miss Elizabeth. Regardless of condition, you'll still be going into stasis."

Spurred forward by the horrifying mental image of Beth's corpse being put on ice, Holmes approached the trembling girl slowly, holding out his hand for the gun. "Beth... she's right, this sacrifice is pointless. You can't do this..." Mercifully, she didn't resist as he took the weapon from her gingerly... then before she or any of the Torchwood personnel could react, turned the weapon on himself. "But _I_ can."

The Director's bravado vanished instantly, staring at him, her face ashen. "Now, Mr. Holmes..."

Holmes smiled grimly, eyes glittering with devil-may-care. "As I thought. Release the Doctor at once, and allow all of us to depart in the TARDIS... or the next thing that Watson writes will be my epitaph." A shame about all those future published cases, but the good doctor's imagination would no doubt be equal to the task...

The Doctor closed his eyes briefly, then focused on the Director, feeling very old and very tired. "Bernice," he said quietly. "Please."

She looked to be in an absolute bind. If her files were as detailed as they seemed to be, she must have known that Sherlock Holmes _never _bluffed. Not to mention that the look in his eyes made it clear that he didn't think he had much to lose, anyway. So what was more important: the Time Lord on a leash, or getting the Great Detective back home unharmed?

Bernice sighed deeply, sagging in her seat and resting her head in her hands. "I hope you realise what you're asking of me, Doctor," she said wearily.

"I'm not the one who's asking," he returned gravely. "And I think I know what's being asked of you better than you yourself do."

Her lips twitched. "Well, let's agree to disagree on that point, shall we?" Holmes watched the woman narrowly as she slowly opened a drawer, only taking his finger off the trigger when she brought out the sonic screwdriver, sliding it forward across the desk for the Doctor to pick up. "You'll be needing this, I believe..."

Watson finally let out the breath he'd been holding as Holmes relinquished the gun back to its original owner, then realised to his chagrin that he was gripping Sally's hand painfully tight; he loosened his hold at once with a remorseful smile and a kiss to her fingers.

Sally smiled faintly back at him, then looked at Beth in concern—the poor girl was only just starting to regain her colour, having gone sheet-white when Sherlock turned the gun on himself.

The Doctor nodded his thanks, picked up the sonic, and pointed it at his collar, deactivating it and opening it. He stood, set the collar on the desk, and held his hand out to Bernice. "Come aboard the TARDIS," he said softly. "No trips, promise. Just come inside."

She looked sorely tempted, but hesitated. "I imagine your good lady would have several things to say about that."

He smiled slightly. "Yes, she will." Quite a lot of things, and few of them appropriate for tender ears. "Come anyway."

Failing to suppress a smile of her own, Bernice rose and took his hand.

* * *

**A/N from Ria:** Bernice Partington is one of my characters, and like Holmes, she's a real balancing act. As the Reasonable Authority Figure, she has to combine compassion with the fact that she does have a job to do, and the Doctor doesn't make it any easier. (In case anyone's wondering why the Doctor gave the psychic paper to the girls when it failed in 'Army of Ghosts', remember that Rose never had a chance to tell him _why_ she got caught!)

**A/N from Sky:** So let's have a round of applause for Ria, because Bernice is an amazing character! And another round for _both_ of us in this last scene, because talk about balancing acts...! A cast that large in a single room is a tough thing. And poor Beth—again, eep. Things just aren't getting any easier for her...

Please review!


	8. What The Mind Forgets

**==Chapter Eight==**

**What The Mind Forgets...**

_"I suppose one day, somewhere, someone will want to have a go at making a fresh series - and good luck to them! They will be hard put to find a better Holmes than Jeremy."_

\- David Burke

The TARDIS didn't lock them out, but she did have some definite words to say as the Doctor and Bernice entered. The Doctor frowned fondly. "Shush." He glanced at Bernice to see how she was taking it.

Her wide eyes roamed the room. "She's beautiful," she breathed.

The TARDIS beeped out a grudging "thank you."

The Doctor looked around, himself. "Did you know that TARDISes are not actually immortal? If they're left without access to the Time Vortex for long enough, they deteriorate. Slowly, but they do. This one was dying when I took her—her and all her sisters like her."

"No, I didn't know," she said softly, then frowned. "So... when you sailed on the Titanic...?"

He lowered his head. "She was willing... up until the last moment," he murmured. "Called me back. I couldn't... _not_... listen to her…" He reached out and stroked one of the struts, recalling the way she'd continued to send him a mental call until finally he gave in and answered… And she'd talked him back down. In a lighter tone, he continued, "Tries to run my life. Managed it, for once, actually—without her, I wouldn't've met Holmes and Watson."

The TARDIS chirped an affirmative.

She nodded slowly, then hesitated. "I... have a confession to make, Doctor: Torchwood didn't research the Daniels family, they didn't have to. The youngest daughter, Sarah... she was my grandmother."

_Oh_. He closed his eyes, remembering, and reopened them slowly. "She was sweet," he murmured. "She loved chanting 'Pat-a-cake' with her siblings. She thought she was going to cross the Atlantic in a fishing boat."

The look in Bernice's eyes said that she was far away and long ago. "Nana was always telling us that story, my brothers and I: the stranger with the funny black jacket and the big ears…" She grinned teasingly, and he couldn't help a smirk—he'd never liked the ears, either. Then she sobered. "...who saved her family from a watery grave. And, Doctor... I'm sure if she were here... that she would thank you." An unspoken "but" hung in the air.

"Her stories," she continued, "sparked in me a love of history... and as I got older, and learned more about our own family history... I couldn't escape the nagging thought: there was no guarantee any of them would have drowned. How many more lives might have been saved if Great-grandfather had been on the _Titanic_—not just from the shipwreck, but in Coventry, too? If the city hadn't seemed such an appealing target to the Germans…"

His gaze drifted to the floor. Of course, he could look to see the answer if he truly wanted to… but like the coward he was, he didn't dare.

"I spent years wishing I knew the answer... and then I joined Torchwood, and learned for the first time just how fortunate we humans truly are in our blindness. Doctor, I do understand why you didn't dare to save more than one family: you're a Time Lord, and when it comes to Fixed Points, you have to look at the bigger picture. Humans, on the other hand, primitive apes that we are—most of the time, we just get on with doing the best we can, hoping like hell that it all works out in the end."

"You make it count," he said solemnly, looking up. "That's what Nikola Tesla learned—you lot make your time on this planet count, and _that's_ what it means to be human."

Her ears pricked up at the mention of Nikola, and she smiled. "The Doctor and Torchwood in agreement—now, there's one for the history books!"

He sighed. She still put too much faith in her organisation. "Bernice, I want to show you something, but I would have to connect with your mind to do it. Will you let me?"

Her expression was doubtful. "Doctor, if this is about the future…"

"It is," he said quietly. "Because of our meeting each other, my past and Torchwood's future are already in peril, and they _can't change_. Not by this point—the damage would be... astronomical. A very special person once told me... things don't have to be Fixed Points to be set in stone—she was right." And he wished he'd listened—Sec might still be alive if he had.

She bit her lip, looking down at the floor. "I'm _really_ not going to like this, am I?" she said just as quietly.

He shook his head. "You're not supposed to."

She looked back up, expression afraid but determined. "I'll have to retcon myself once the dossiers are compiled—it's standard policy. Humans aren't meant to know the future, not even Torchwood; constantly second guessing oneself is no way to live."

He nodded slowly. "You should know, though, that retconning memories never entirely works. My own people couldn't perfect it. Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely. In the back of your mind, you'll always know."

She nodded solemnly and took a deep breath. "Well, then…" She grinned shakily. "...you'd better get on with it before I lose my nerve completely."

He returned the nod, lifted his hand to her temple, and closing his eyes, returning to one of many sets of memories he never saw willingly. And it had still been less than a year for him—the memories hadn't softened yet...

_His first arrival at Torchwood, how much they'd accomplished... the clever, confident Yvonne Hartman... the discovery that Torchwood was playing with fire, his attempt to persuade Yvonne to stop and her refusal... the full arrival of the Cybermen and the appearance of the Daleks... "It's not an invasion. It's too late for that. It's a victory..."_

_...the destruction caused by the Cybermen and Daleks... a Cyberman holding the line for the Doctor and Rose, repeating that she'd done her duty…_

The memories took a turn the Doctor hadn't meant to take, but he couldn't stop it in time:

_...trying to keep Rose safe and her determination to stay with him... her grip slipping, his terror, the Void sucking her in until Pete saved her... the breach closing, and the numbness in the Doctor's hearts... Bad Wolf Bay, her tearful confession of love, his attempt to say "I love you" for the first time in centuries, only to be cut off by the power running out…_

At last he pulled out, gasping for breath, unshed tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.

Bernice was white as paper, shaking, eyes closed, face wet with tears.

He gripped her shoulders in concern. "Bernice, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean... didn't mean for it to be that intense…"

Her eyes flew open, further tears spilling over. "No!" she said sharply. She drew a shuddering breath, voice low and quivering with raw emotion. "Don't you _dare_ apologise, Doctor, not for that!" Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "My God…" She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, head bowed. She hadn't simply _watched_ the events—she'd felt the emotional barrage that accompanied them.

He nodded mutely, let go of her, and took a step back, trembling himself.

"What we did," she said slowly, hollowly. Eyes full of remorse, she lifted her head. "Doctor... can you ever forgive us?"

He shook his head slowly, his own tears starting to fall. "I can't even wish I could... Bernice, on top of the countless lives taken in that battle... your organisation took away the one person who gave me a reason to live again... and if it hadn't been for Holmes and Watson... I don't even know where I'd be."

She nodded, looking emotionally gutted. "Doctor... I am... _so_ sorry," she said thickly. "That might not mean a lot to you, but I am. What you've asked for will be done, I promise…"

Closing his eyes, he took a shuddering breath and nodded. After a moment, he murmured, "Do you want a cup of tea? I could do with some tea right now."

She smiled faintly. "Please."

* * *

Once more under escort, the Companions also made their way to where the TARDIS sat under guard. Sally held Watson's hand tightly, the doctor keeping a sharp eye on Jeremy - the actor was being half-supported by Beth as, much to his embarassment, he seemed to be having trouble walking on his own again. Watson hoped his sudden exhaustion was merely due to the stress of the last few hours, although running a scan on him in the medbay couldn't hurt, just to be sure.

The other half of his attention was focused on Holmes, keeping his distance at the back of the group. His friend had been silently avoiding all eye contact since the Doctor's release, and Watson was deeply worried that it might be partly due to his own apparent lack of reaction when Holmes had threatened to shoot himself. Watson couldn't think how to explain to his friend that it hadn't only been shock keeping him frozen; normally, the doctor would know Holmes far too well to think his friend was bluffing, but lately he'd been seriously starting to think that he didn't know this Sherlock Holmes very well at all...

The Doctor and the Director stepped out of the TARDIS as the Companions entered the area. Watson was dismayed to see that Miss Partington looked more than a little shell-shocked, but relieved when the pair shook hands in farewell, smiling at each other with obvious regret.

The Director turned to the newcomers. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's been an honour - the best of luck to all of you."

Watson came forward with Sally and extended his own hand. "And to you, madam. I hope we haven't caused you too much extra paperwork."

Miss Partington flinched slightly as she shook hands, but forced a hollow laugh. "You've no idea... and speaking of which, the stacks are calling." Over her shoulder, "Until next time, Doctor."

* * *

Holmes frowned as he watched the Director walk swiftly out of the room, head held high, but her eyes as haunted as the Doctor's.

"She's not okay, is she," Jeremy's voice came softly from behind him.

"Nope." The Doctor's voice was the quietest that Holmes had ever heard it. He didn't even want to imagine what the Time Lord must have said to the woman...

Jeremy turned to look at the Doctor. "And neither are you." Brilliant deduction, that man.

The Doctor shook his head ruefully. "...and you, Mr. Jeremy, aren't looking so okay, yourself." He relieved Beth of the actor's weight. "Come on, let's get you into the TARDIS."

Jeremy was now fighting to keep his eyes open, stumbling as they entered the TARDIS. "What the..." He stared up and around, looking increasingly dazed. "Oh. All right... Lovely..." then nearly passed out on the Doctor, who struggled to keep him upright.

"Oi! Oh. Oh..." The Doctor half-carried Jeremy over to the jumpseat and lowered him gently onto it. "Oh, Jeremy, I'm sorry."

"They drugged me?"

"I'm afraid so. Retcon. When you wake up, you won't remember any of this." The Doctor's voice was bitter, and strangely betrayed. "Torchwood couldn't afford that loose end."

"Isn't there a way to counteract it?" Watson asked.

"I"d have to analyze what they put in him in the first place to be able to come up with any kind of antidote to make sure I wouldn't hurt him."

"Oh, don't waste… your time on an old man, Doctor…"

The Doctor shook his finger at Jeremy. "Oi. I'll have you know that the only old man around here is me."

Jeremy chuckled tiredly.

Beth came forward and hugged him, whispering, "Thank you."

Jeremy managed to hug her back. "For what?"

"For everything. For being you. For teaching me never to give up."

Jeremy smiled past sudden tears and lifted a shaking hand to her face. "Upward and onward," he murmured.

Beth nodded, standing straight again. "Goodbye," she breathed, then turned and walked out of the room, face pinched as if she was trying not to cry.

Holmes had been making a concerted effort to not look like a thundercloud while the two had their moment, even waiting until Beth was out of earshot to say, "So that's why they weren't worried about your decision to stop playing the 'Great Detective' -" He was bewildered to find that the thought had mysteriously lost much of its appeal; "since you wouldn't remember meeting the real one..."

Jeremy smiled gently, looking as if he'd finally understood something. "Maybe I would have changed my mind, anyway..." His smile turned sad as Holmes looked at him in bemusement. "You _did_ come for me..." His eyelids were starting to droop.

"Well, I... didn't actually do it for you," Holmes admitted, somewhat awkwardly.

Jeremy nodded drowsily. "Watson."

Holmes nodded back, smiling faintly. "Both of them." However ridiculous, he couldn't help feeling a tiny bit envious about that, his actor having _two_ Watsons... "Besides..." He grinned, relieved; "I would have made a terrible understudy."

Jeremy echoed the grin. "Fair enough..." He sobered. "Have a good life, Sherlock..." His eyes fluttered closed.

Holmes reached out and gripped the man's hand, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. No regrets, he told himself sternly, it was better this way. Remembering the real Holmes might or might not have made much difference to the actor's career, but at the very least Jeremy deserved to spend the last years of his life without constantly looking over his shoulder into the wings.

* * *

Still bleary-eyed from the sleeping tablets, Edward was about to call room service for some coffee, when he heard a strange groaning noise coming from the lounge. What the hell?

He stumbled over to the bedroom door, jaw dropping to see what had to be the Doctor's police box-shaped time machine appearing out of thin air next to the minibar. The door opened and the Doctor's head poked out. "Hello? Anybody home?"

"You might have called ahead..." Edward said weakly, then shook himself. "Jeremy?"

The Doctor's sheepish smile faded at the question, stepping out of the TARDIS with Jeremy in his arms, unconscious. "He's fine. He just won't remember any of this, is all. Not the kidnapping, not meeting us."

Edward hurried forward, barely registering the Doctor's words in his alarm. "Dear God - what did they do to him?"

The Doctor shifted his hold, grimacing. "Edward, he's fine. Can I put him on the sofa?"

"Of course, I'm sorry." Edward moved ahead of them, piling cushions at one end of the nearest sofa.

"Thanks." The Doctor lowered Jeremy carefully, then straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Oo. He'll be all right, okay? They just ensured he wouldn't remember any of this."

Edward nodded, secretly relieved to be spared the details, and looked up at the Doctor, his eyes moist. "Thank you... all of you."

The Doctor bowed. "It was our pleasure. I would tell you to take care of him... but I know I don't have to." He winked.

Watson came out into the lounge as well, striding over and holding out his hand. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

Edward shook hands with his role model, smiling regretfully. "Watson, this has been... the most incredible honour. I wish David could have met you, too - he would have been over the moon."

Watson's smile was equally regretful. "I would have liked that, too." He grasped Edward's hand in both of his as the Doctor beat a diplomatic retreat back to the TARDIS. "But, Edward, it's been an honour for me also. Thank you."

Edward brought his other hand in as well. "Thank _you_, John." His brow furrowed as he noticed that Holmes hadn't made an appearance. "How's Holmes?"

Watson's gaze slid down to the floor. "I'm not sure," he murmured. "It's... it's almost as though I'm watching Jeremy's moody portrayal come to life in my dearest friend..." He looked up, expression deeply troubled; "and it worries me. Holmes has had his moods before... but never like this."

Edward frowned. "Well, John, I can't claim to be an expert on either one of you... but given the choice, I'd follow your instincts over your friend's any day." From what he'd seen, 'the best and wisest man' was a much better description of the doctor than the detective. "If you're that concerned about Holmes, then that's a sure sign that you should be."

Watson nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Goodbye, Edward—" he said quietly, "and good luck."

"And the best of luck to you, John, and Sally." Edward smiled warmly at the thought of the joyful event that was surely soon to be. "Jeremy and I wish you both very happy." Jeremy might not have said anything, but Edward had seen the gleam of approval in his eye last night while watching the two together, and felt no qualms about speaking for his friend on this occasion.

The doctor's smile widened. "Thank you." Giving his actor a last nod of respect, he turned and walked back into the box.

Edward shook his head in wonder as the ship began fading out again. "Exit centre stage..." he murmured, resisting the urge to wave his hand through the now-empty space. It was such a shame he couldn't tell anyone else about this adventure, not even Jeremy - what an amazing science fiction series it would make...

* * *

As the TARDIS returned to the Vortex, Watson took a deep breath and approached his friend. "Holmes, can we talk? Out in the corridor?"

Holmes eyed Watson a trifle warily, but nodded. "Of course."

Watson followed him out, starting in as soon as Holmes had turned to face him again. "Holmes, I am so sorry I didn't tell you about Sally and I. What happened was... not the way I would have had you learn about it, certainly."

Holmes's expression cleared slightly. "I see - you meant to tell me once we'd succeeded in our mission?" He sighed, continuing dryly, "For someone trying to match wits with a Time Lord, Miss Partington's sense of timing seems woefully deficient..."

Instead of smiling at the joke, Watson seemed to hesitate. "Indeed." He shook his head. "Still, my own sense of timing obviously did not turn out to be much better, and I'm sorry."

It was only the briefest of pauses, but it made Holmes tense right up, thoughts reeling. Watson... Watson had just _told him a lie_, he was sure of it. The doctor hadn't meant to tell him later... he'd _forgotten_, forgotten to tell his own best friend he was engaged! But then, he wasn't even certain why he was so surprised; it was all of a piece with how distant the man had been acting lately, he'd barely even looked at Holmes the last few days, except to find fault.

Well, if his so-called best friend couldn't concern himself outside his own personal life, the detective certainly had better things to do with _his_ time than to whine like a spoilt child about being ignored! Trying not to grit his teeth, he pasted on an understanding smile. "Quite all right, Watson - after all, you intended no deceit. And may I, in turn, offer my sincerest congratulations." One lie deserved another...

Watson's eyebrow arched slightly - perhaps doubting Holmes's sincerity?- but then his expression became self-conscious. "May I ask for one thing more? Holmes... would you be my best man?"

The detective would rather have been put in solitary with _The Beatles' Greatest Hits_ playing on a permanent random shuffle; unfortunately, after what he'd just told Watson, he couldn't very well refuse without looking like a complete hypocrite. Uttering certain choice epithets in the privacy of his own thoughts, he forced a wry grin. "Well, it's a good thing I didn't take any longer to sober up!" Watson would probably know that old superstition: it was a bad omen if the best man was drunk on the morning of the wedding. Where was a brandy bottle when you _really_ needed one?

Watson snorted, shaking his head. "Oh, Holmes..." The doctor clasped his shoulder affectionately with a heartfelt murmur: "Thank you."

Holmes had to remind himself sternly that the only reason Watson seemed less self-absorbed right now was because he had something the doctor wanted - once he stopped being useful, he'd most likely be dropped again like a hot coal. "Don't mention it, old fellow," he murmured back, this time with perfect sincerity. If Watson ever brought the incident up in future, Holmes wasn't sure exactly how he'd react, but he couldn't see it ending well...

* * *

**A/N from Ria:** We deeply regret that Edward didn't get more of a part to play in this episode. Like Beth says, the actor didn't receive half the appreciation he deserved in that role - but anyone who's seen Jeremy's interviews or read 'Bending the Willow' will know how much Jeremy appreciated his best friend, especially in those last few years.

It would have been great if we could also have worked David Burke into the story somehow, but we just couldn't think of a way to do it that wouldn't seem too contrived. Besides, two Holmeses and two Watsons were enough of a handful!

Oh, and speaking of two Watsons... stay tuned for the last chapter!

**A/N from Sky:** Like Watson himself, Edward might not have been the star, but the star might not have been there without him. 3 (And this from a gal whose favorite Watson of all time _is_ David Burke! =) )

And... I feel like it should be said... I'm sorry this episode hurt so much. Really. Writing out so much conflict amongst the heroes themselves isn't fun—and the deeper you immerse yourself in the characters, the less fun it is. But patience: all will make sense in time...


	9. The Heart Remembers

**==Chapter Nine==**

**...The Heart Remembers**

_My bounty is as boundless as the sea,  
My love as deep; the more I give to thee  
The more I have, for both are infinite._

\- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Sitting beside Jeremy on the edge of the sofa, Edward's heart leapt as his friend began to stir. "Jeremy?"

Jeremy grunted softly, gradually coming to. He turned towards Edward, blinking as he tried to focus. "Ted?" He frowned, sitting up slowly. "What am I doing in your room?"

Edward raised his eyebrows. "Well, you did have rather a lot to drink last night - I thought I'd best keep an eye on you." It was going to be a long time before he'd be able to let his friend out of his sight again - if anything had happened to Jeremy because of his carelessness, he never could have forgiven himself... "How are you feeling?"

Jeremy had arched an eyebrow at 'a lot to drink', but shrugged. "Slight headache... otherwise, not bad at all. What time is it?"

Edward smiled in relief, glancing at his watch. "Quarter to six." He handed Jeremy a glass of water with a couple of aspirin, and added innocently, "Another fifteen minutes and I was going to start weighing the pros and cons of a jug of cold water..."

Jeremy's eyes widened. "That late? Good grief. I don't remember drinking _that_ much..." He shook his head dazedly and downed the aspirin.

Edward masked his slight pang of guilt with a look of exasperated amusement. "What are you complaining about? Looks like you slept off most of the hangover, lucky devil!" Rising, he offered a hand to Jeremy. "And we'd better get going, Patrick's already called twice." Jeremy always needed more time than Edward to get into character, and they still had to get to the theater.

Jeremy sighed and took the hand. "All right, all right... I'm not going out on that stage until I've had some form of dinner, though."

Edward nodded, grabbing his coat; he hadn't been able to eat much himself in the last twenty-four hours. "No arguments here – what d'you fancy?"

Jeremy shrugged and stretched. "Sandwich from Garrick Arms?"

Edward felt his insides freeze, eyes wide. "I think, perhaps," he said hastily, "something a little more substantial?" He highly doubted anyone from Torchwood had thought to wipe the bartender's memory! "Let's go to the Porcupine - they do a decent fish and chips, and I'm starving."

Jeremy looked at him oddly for a moment, but then shrugged again, smiling. "Fine by me. _Allons-y._"

* * *

As it turned out, the TARDIS had a chapel. The Doctor had explained that there were dozens of religions per species throughout the universe—apparently feeling the need to justify the presence of the room. Beth got the distinct impression that he didn't get along very well with any faith, aside from an optimism that things would always turn out right in the end. Thus, it was very sweet of him to be willing to perform a modified Anglican wedding ceremony.

The Time Lord was flipping through a small book when she and Sally entered. Dr. Watson was already there, back in a normal Victorian suit. He looked positively _spellbound_ at the sight of Sally in her simple but elegant wedding gown and veil. It was all courtesy of the TARDIS, laid out and ready for her in her bedroom when she and Beth had gone to it to get her ready.

Sally herself looked radiant. Beth had been to a handful of weddings in the past, and she had to say that Sally looked no less joyful than any other bride she'd ever seen.

In all honesty, Beth could still hardly believe that she was actually getting to _see_ this. The mysterious second Mrs. Watson, a one-off mention by _Sherlock Holmes_ in 'The Blanched Soldier', was turning out to be a girl from the early twenty-first century, and Beth not only got to watch the wedding but partake in it as the Maid of Honour. She didn't quite dare to hope that she and Sally could get to be friends, but she wanted it to happen. She couldn't help that…

The Doctor looked up, eyes alight. "Well then, shall we start?"

Sally's eyes and smile widened, and she nodded.

Watson was still staring at his bride. Behind him, Sherlock raised eyes to the ceiling, nudged his friend (making him start), and gave him a mildly pointed look. Watson blushed and nodded at the Doctor as well, beaming.

The Doctor nodded back, smiling. "All right. Been a long time since I've done this, but I'll do my best." He cleared his throat. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony. Time-travel weddings are not new—they've happened before and they'll probably continue until the end of Time. And, by the nature of the relationship, the commitment must be strong."

His smile growing, he turned to Watson. "John Watson, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part, according to God's holy ordinance?"

Watson looked tenderly at his bride, smiling mistily. His love was written in every part of his features—in his eyes, in his mouth… the way that Beth had seen her father look at her mother. Yes, these two would definitely be all right. "I do," he murmured.

The Doctor turned to Sally. "Sally Sparrow, do you take this man to be your lawful wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part, according to God's holy ordinance?"

Eyes shining, Sally held and caressed Watson's hands and murmured, "I do."

The Doctor glanced at Beth and gave a small nod.

She stepped forward and gave the bride and groom their rings, then stepped back again.

The Doctor nodded for Watson to proceed, and murmured, "'With this ring, I thee wed.'" Watson slipped the ring on Sally's finger, echoing the words reverently, and the Doctor repeated the process with her. Once that was finished, he burst into a brilliant smile. "Then by the power vested in me by many different parties that shall go unnamed, I now pronounce you husband and wife." He grinned at Watson, who grinned widely back. "You may kiss the bride."

Sally smiled expectantly, positively shining of her own accord.

Watson's smile became awestruck as he turned to Sally and lifted the veil. He cupped her cheek reverently, caressing it, then leaned in and kissed her warmly, drawing her into his arms. Sally wound her arms around him, looking blissfully content.

Behind the couple, Sherlock's expression was genial enough, but his eyes were troubled. They slid away from the Watsons as if unable to watch. Of course, his initial reaction to Watson's first marriage hadn't been pleased… did he think he was losing his best friend? Surely he knew better than that!

She wished he would let her help.

* * *

_(Scene rating: PG13)_

Hand in hand, the newlyweds entered the bedroom corridor. Watson halted at a sudden thought, turning to Sally and asking hesitantly, "Where would you prefer, love: your room or mine?" Of course, the TARDIS could easily alter their living arrangements however they wanted, but if Sally would be more comfortable in a more familiar setting...

Sally tilted her head with a bemused smile. "Yours." She squeezed his hand gently. "Come on, then."

He squeezed back, led her to the door and opened it, thanking providence he'd thought to pick up after himself the last time he was in here - the TARDIS didn't go in for that kind of room service. His chamber was much the same as it had been since the ship first provided it, except that there was now a spacious, comfortable-looking couch beside the fire; a small table sat next to it, which held a tray with an earthenware teapot and two handleless cups.

Sally smiled at the sight and drew Watson over to the couch; he wondered if she could feel his pulse quickening the way he could hers. He sat down beside her, hoping he didn't look as awkward as he felt. They hadn't talked at all about intimate matters - not that there had ever been an appropriate moment! - and it was starting to dawn on him that he really had no idea of how much knowledge or experience she might have on the subject.

Unsure of how to even broach the topic with her, he nodded instead at the mysterious teapot, grateful for the slight distraction. "Feeling adventurous, my dear?"

"Always." Her grin couldn't quite conceal the nervousness in her own expression - Watson wasn't certain whether to be relieved or concerned about that.

He drew the table closer and lifted the lid off the teapot, smiling in pleasant surprise at the scent of the rising steam. "Mm, it's chai - I haven't had this in years!"

"Oh, I love chai!" Sally drew her legs up onto the couch as he poured out the tea, accepting her cup with a raised eyebrow at his look of inquiry. "What?"

"I was just wondering where you acquired a taste for it. I know it's gaining popularity in your time, but it still doesn't seem to have the same following as coffee."

He raised his cup, and she touched hers to it. "Are you kidding me? I used to _live_ in coffee shops, and someone recommended it to me. Sort of a seasonal thing for me, really - I prefer it during the cold months."

"Mm, the spices always make me think of Christmas. I first tried it in..." He closed his eyes as he cast his mind back; "Bombay, I believe. Eighteen-seventy-eight ..." He shook his head. "Lord, that was a lifetime ago!" Newly graduated from medical school, so young and innocent...

She smiled at him fondly. "That wouldn't be _quite_ my lifetime. And you're not _that_ old..." She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

He couldn't help blushing at the compliment, although he still found it hard to believe. "Well, I'm flattered you think so," he smiled, taking her hand in his and kissing it.

She blushed a little herself, teasing gently, "Getting to meet one of the most famous actors to play you kind of puts things in perspective."

"Poor Edward ," Watson chuckled, remembering his surprise at the first sight of the actor's balding head. "At least I can safely promise you never to wear a toupee! The men in my family have always kept their hair, for some reason."

She giggled. "Good thing..." She put her cup down and lifted both hands to run through his hair; "...because I already really like doing this..."

His breath caught, heart beating faster. "Oh, Sally love," he murmured, setting his own cup aside and winding his arm around her waist, drawing her near.

Fingers winding through his hair, she kissed him fully on the lips; he kissed her back warmly, scalp tingling, and lifted his free hand to stroke her hair, a faint hum of frustration escaping him on finding it still pinned up. "May I?" he breathed.

She nodded wordlessly, eyes shining, so close now that he could feel her shivering in what he dearly hoped was anticipation. He turned her gently so that her back was to him, and began carefully drawing the hair pins from her chignon. He'd only taken out half of them before his self-control slipped; overcome by the sight of her slender, elegant neck, he was unable to resist bending his head to bestow a soft kiss on her nape.

He thrilled at the gasp that escaped her. Wanting very badly to hear it again, he kissed her neck just a little lower, just as softly, and was rewarded with a deeper gasp and a husky murmur, "John..."

He smiled at the desire in her voice, murmuring teasingly in her ear, "I gather you approve, love?"

She nodded, swallowing hard.

"Good... because I mean to continue..." he breathed, straightening and planting a soft kiss on the back of her head, "just as soon as I've finished with this..." He drew out the last of the pins, watching raptly as her hair tumbled freely down in a golden cascade, burnished by the dancing firelight.

Sally moaned softly and twisted partway around to look at him, her eyes huge and dark. She raised a trembling hand to his neck, caressing it lightly with the backs of her fingers. He hummed in pleasure at her touch, relieved that she was feeling bold enough to take an active part in proceedings, then bent and kissed her lips again, burying his fingers in her gorgeous hair, so soft and silky...

She echoed the hum, winding her arms around his neck. Delighted by her response, he lowered his head further, trailing feather-light kisses slowly down her neck. His pulse thundered at the sound of her ragged, quickening breath, kisses deepening unconsciously as he continued down her neck - such creamy, satin skin, deliciously warm and flushed under his mouth, her back arching in pleasure, fingers digging into his shoulders...

"...John..."

Her moan of his name suddenly brought him back to himself; he forced himself to slow his kisses and pull back a little, panting. Her eyes were wide, her own chest heaving. "Sally, love...?" He smoothed her tumbled hair back from her face, trying to calm them both down enough to think clearly. "Before we get much further... I think... I think we need to talk..."

Sally took a few moments to catch her own breath as he spoke, eventually murmuring, "What if I said... that you were the first... man ever to give me his number?" She smiled shakily, lifting a hand to his cheek. "Guys seem to be less interested... in girls focused on getting good marks..."

He laid his hand over hers, caressing her fingers, and answered earnestly, "Then I would say... that they were fools, every one... and yet I can't help being thankful for that..." He smiled warmly; "for their loss is certainly my gain."

Sally's eyes shone as she leant forward and kissed him again. He kissed her back tenderly, murmuring, "And make no mistake, sweetheart... I would like very much for us to continue on..." He would like nothing better, in fact, but the last thing he wanted was to force her; "but more than anything else, I want you to be comfortable with what we're doing. Nothing needs to happen tonight, love, not if you're not ready."

The love and confidence in her eyes took his breath away all over again. "John... I do want this - very much." She shook her head, smiling. "We wouldn't be here if I wasn't ready..." She lifted her hand to run her fingers through his hair again. "Trust me..."

He leaned into her touch, gazing at her adoringly, although his anxiety still remained. "I do, Sally - it's just that... well, it might hurt a little at first if you've never been with a man before..." He was aware that girls of her time were generally a lot more knowledgeable about such things than the young ladies of his era, but even so...

Sally lifted her other hand and put a finger to his lips. "Inexperienced... doesn't equal... ignorant..." She blushed, murmuring, "...and I _want_ you, John."

Watson kissed her fingertip, blushing himself at the hunger in her voice, eyes dark with desire. Rising from the couch, he drew her up into his arms and kissed her passionately, murmuring against her lips with just as much hunger, "Then you shall have me, my darling wife..." He took her hand in his, kissing her fingers softly. "I am entirely yours."

His heart raced as Sally drew him towards the bed, slowly undoing his coat buttons - he had to remind himself that there was no need to rush, they had all night... wait a minute, they were in a time machine...

**To Be Continued...**

**in Episode 10: Dynamics of a Point**

* * *

**A/N from Ria:** All right, everyone, let's give those two a little privacy - seriously, though, there's a reason the whole season so far has been rated T. You want the M-rated stuff, you'll have to stick around for the finale... Rest assured, though - we do respect the sensibilities of our readers. For those who aren't into graphic detail, violence or otherwise, the scenes in question (like this last one) will be indicated at the beginning. We've also done our best to make sure that skipping over those scenes won't affect the plotline.

Well, since our newlyweds seem to be busy at the moment, why not join us in the control room for the last TARDISode? In which Holmes and Beth will be having an encounter of their own...

Stay tuned, and please review!


End file.
